


The Captain and the Queen

by evocates



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Boromir Lives!, Community: hobbit_kink, F/M, M/M, Multi, Politics, Threesome - F/M/M, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after she was crowned the Queen of Gondor, Arwen finds Boromir in a small village near the Stone of Erech. Finding him seems easy when compared to her new Quest of bringing the Son of Gondor back home. Sort of fulfils <a href="http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=8585488#t8585488">this Arwen/Aragorn/Boromir prompt</a> on hobbit_kink.</p><p>Subtitled “An Exploration of the Problems of a Postwar Gondor”.</p><p>(COMPLETE.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Het sex, gay sex, threesome sex, politics, Arwen-centric.
> 
> Beta'd by halfthewords@LJ.

**Part I**

The sun rose late in the village, for the White Mountain hid her light from the plains of Lamedon until late in the morn. Yet Arwen was long used to waking up at first light, and though her body was mortal now, it remembered Imladris’s dawn well, and she shook herself awake in the darkness. Her feet fell onto the cold stone ground, and she walked towards the small mirror hung up at the wall.

Customs of women’s hairstyles differed from province to province in Gondor. Arwen remembered that in Lossarnach and Minas Tirith, ladies of high birth wore their hair in intricate braids wound around their heads. Here, in a small village far away from Gondor’s main cities, women worked as often as men, and their hair was usually braided low on their necks – enough to pull the strands away from their eyes. It was a useful hairstyle, and one Arwen followed immediately once she heard of it, for it hid the curved tips of her Elven ears that she would rather have none see. Then she took a small pot of red-and-brown face-paint she had with her since Lossarnach, and rubbed the paint onto her face to imitate a disfiguring burn. For a final touch, she took the dark, sooty ash of last night’s fire from her small grate, streaking her face, wrists and hands to allow the eyes of others to easily slide past her.

Morning saw the inn silent, near all living creatures asleep except for the servants who were just awakening. Arwen loved these quiet mornings, for she could walk down the rickety stairs of the inn down to its tavern and watch as the servants trailed in, already chattering. They would make breakfast for the customers who would come in three hours after dawn, when the first work at the farm was finished. Those who came in then were mostly bachelors in their second or third decade of living; Men without wives or mothers to cook for them, and thus had to rely upon the tavern for food.

All here knew her as ‘Ioreth’, a name she had taken from an old woman in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith in a small gesture to honour her. Arwen felt guilt at the minor lies she told to them, but she kept silent about all other parts of her life. Most of the village did not ask – they were used to the lost and lonely trailing in and taking up a place within them. The village itself was young, barely three years old, built up by desperate souls who had lost all they had to orc raids and looked for a new place to live that would not strangle their hearts at the sight. These plains beside the river Morthond and facing the Stone of Erech had been long abandoned, but Arwen had learned that desperate Men were brave as well, and they took heart at King Elessar’s cleansing of the Path of the Dead to take advantage of the fertile fields fed by Morthond during its floods.

She was lifting the chairs to place them on the floor to ready for the day ahead when the stranger came in. Arwen betook him for a man of the city; not merely because he was the first to appear on every morn, but also due to his height – he was as tall as any of the Dúnedain, though that fact was hard to find out, for he was often hunched over, whether sitting or standing. She would suspect the quality of his voice and speech as well, but she had not heard him say a single word in the two months since she had first arrived in the village.

“Ioreth!” Turning, Arwen blinked at the sound of the landlord’s hiss. She placed the last stool on the ground before walking over, taking care to place her feet harder on the ground, hiding her Elven glide.

“What is it, master?” she asked.

“Don’t just stand there and stare at him,” the landlord grumbled. He pushed a full plate and a tankard of ale towards her. “Bring this over to him, will you?”

Arwen nodded on automatic, concealing her heart’s joyful leap. Here was a chance to know a Man, another one whom she was supposed to rule and yet could not quite understand. She picked up the dishes and tankard, balancing them on her hands a little clumsily before she returned to the stranger.

“Your breakfast, sire,” she murmured, keeping her eyes down as was appropriate for women of ‘Ioreth’s’ station.

Up close, Arwen noted that he was thin, though the bones that showed through the collar of his rough shirt seemed to hint at higher breeding. Arwen had heard that, amongst Men, there were times when children were born between couples whom shared no marriage ties. Perhaps this stranger was one such unfortunate soul?

The stranger nodded. “Thank you,” said he, and he turned his eyes up to look at her.

In that one moment as their gazes met, Arwen felt that the air in her lungs was stolen away.

Long ago, in what seemed to be another lifetime, a Man had suffered through great travails to arrive at her father’s home. She spoke to that Man but once in his time in Imladris, when he had stumbled into a pavilion in the gardens while looking for the way back into the halls. Though Arwen had invited him to stay and partake in tea with her, he had declined, and fled from her as if she was a malevolent spirit. Yet during those quick moments, Arwen had fixed his image in her mind: his proud bearing, the red-gold of his hair (darker than the Valyrian shade, yet rivalling it in beauty), and the striking spring-green of his eyes.

Arwen could no longer claim to be immortal, yet she was still an Elf, and Elven memories did not fade. She knew the Man sitting in front of her to be ghost made flesh once more; a Man who was said to be dead and greatly mourned over. In that moment of recognition, she wished for naught else but to reach out for him, to grasp his shoulders tight and shake him hard with all the Elven strength she still had left in her. _Why_ , she wanted to ask, _did you not return? There are so many still grieving for your loss, and I fear they always will. Why have you hidden yourself away so?_

 __Yet she would give herself away, and the efforts she had taken to appear a plain woman were far too great to be thrown away in a rash confrontation. Instead, she watched Boromir of Gondor take up his tankard of ale and drain half of it in one long gulp. She curtseyed to his small nod of dismissal, and noted with satisfaction that there was no recognition in those familiar eyes.

Instead of speaking, she retreated back into the kitchens, hiding her shaking hands in the wide sleeves of her rough cotton dress. Arwen knew without asking that Boromir would not give her the answer she so sought: she would have to find them herself.

***

Servant girls were few in the inn, for most of the stragglers who came in were Men who had lost their families: farmers and widows who were left the only survivors after their farmsteads or even their village were destroyed by orc packs during the long war against Mordor. When she first begun on her Quest for knowledge, Arwen had found her Westron tested, for she was far too accustomed to speaking with only lords and nobles of Men, and many of the smaller folk had shied away from her when she attempted to talk to them.

It had been a year and some months since she had begun (she was Elven still in her counting of years, for though mortality had set aches in her flesh after a long day of work in the inn, she could not fully understanding the passing of the seasons as the ticking down until the end of a lifetime), and she thought she had learned the Westron of the smaller folk well enough to speak to her.

“Master,” she asked the landlord after the moon had replaced the sun in the sky. “Who is the man who comes first every morn for his breakfast?”

The landlord looked up from where he was bent over his accounts, coins earned for the day’s work scattered around him. He gave her a surprised look. “He’s a farmhand, that’s what he is; works with the cows and the horses, mostly. He’s a good hand with them too: quiet, able to calm the animals down. He’s never been a bit of trouble, so that’s all we know of him.”

“Does he have a name?”

Shrugging, the landlord picked up a silver piece and bit it. Arwen learned, after much watching, that it was a manner of testing if the silver was true. “He has never given one. We call him Dwyte, sometimes – some of the women think he comes from Rohan, and it’s fitting, with that hair of his.”

“Has no one asked about his true name?” Arwen asked, surprised.

Giving her a wry look, the landlord pushed away his papers, placing his elbows on the wood as he looked up at her. “We don’t ask for names around here, Ioreth,” he said. “You came and gave yours easily, and there’s nowt to be blamed for that. But for some, the old names remind us only of what is lost, and they would rather be named anew.”

How strange Men were still to her! For the Elves, names carried great weight, for Elven parents were prone to foresight, and what they saw for the future of their child would influence their choice of names greatly. Even for the Men Arwen knew, their names were strong reminders of their heritage and House. 

“I see,” she said.

“What is your sudden interest in him, eh?” the landlord asked, and he grinned, leaning forward to her slightly. “You had a good look at him this morning, hadn’t you? Did you find him comely?”

Arwen ducked her head, stifling her laughter deep within her lungs. Such words were the very reason for her disguise, for she knew that any who knew she was Gondor’s Queen would never dare to tease her, and would hide their true selves away to show her only the propriety they thought was due to her for her station. 

“Perhaps,” she said, twisting the tablecloth in her hands around her fingers. She thought suddenly of Aragorn, and wondered what he would think of his wife’s appreciation for the Man he dared not admit to loving, and allowed the giggle the spring forth from her lips. “He is rather fair to look upon.”

The landlord chuckled, but shook his head almost immediately. “Best you give up on that thought,” he warned her, his gaze serious as he caught hers. “I have met many Men like him, Ioreth, and they’re not ones to be tied down. He’d run at the slightest sign of anything of that sort, mark my words.”

 _You are sharper-eyed than you think you are, master_ , Arwen thought. Aye, she knew now that Boromir would for certain leave the village if she ever approached him and revealed herself. Surely not out of fear of marriage – for the very thought itself was preposterous – but Arwen knew he would flee nonetheless: Boromir seemed to have gone through much trouble to appear as just another displaced stranger from the long wars instead of the hero he truly was, and any exposure would have him fleeing like a terrified deer. 

She still did not understand what precisely it was that he was afraid of; the reasons he had for hiding from Minas Tirith and all those who loved and missed him dearly. Though their shared King never once spoke of Boromir to her, Arwen knew deep within her heart that Aragorn had long forgiven Boromir for taking the Ring, and that at times the ache of the emptiness that Boromir left behind was almost too hard to bear.

“Thank you, master.” She gave the landlord a distracted curtsey, occupied by her own thoughts. But the Man only gave a wave in dismissal, and Arwen returned to her own ponderings as she took the stairs up to the small room that she had been given for her own in return for her work.

Should she send a letter to the Prince of Ithlien to inform him that his brother was still alive? No, Arwen decided almost immediately – Boromir could not be rediscovered in one of the small, nameless villages of Gondor. He must return to Minas Tirith with the silver trumpets announcing his presence – a hero’s welcome. However, for that to happen, Arwen would have to convince him to ride back East towards Minas Tirith, and that seemed to be a great task in itself. It would require every bit of wisdom and every scrap of knowledge of Men she had.

Yet it was one she must accomplish alone. Arwen could not leave Boromir here in obscurity, and neither would she call down the entire court of Minas Tirith or even Ithilien to expose him before she knew the reasons why he chose to hide.

***

The next few days Arwen spent making as many subtle enquiries as she could regarding ‘Dwyte’, and received many teasing remarks about her sudden interest in the man which she tried to dismiss in a manner that would allow ‘Ioreth’ to keep her honour while preventing the good people of the village of suspecting any other reason for her interest. How odd the situations her quest had sent her into indeed, when she would rather be thought to have affections towards a Man who was not her beloved instead of divulging the truth.

Seven passes the Sun had made through the skies when Boromir found her in the tavern’s stables. She was spreading straw throughout the horses’ stalls when a shadow at the door blocked the fading light of the sunset. Arwen turned, watching as Boromir stepped into the stables, and he took a rake from the corner and begun to work without a word.

She knew that there were words on his tongue. Though she felt a tug of impatience in her breast, she only waited.

“I knew a woman named Ioreth once,” said Boromir finally, his voice echoing through the depths of the stables. He walked out of the stall, giving a smile to the calm mare inside before he pinned Arwen with a sharp emerald gaze. “The last I heard, she was a healer in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, not a widowed seamstress from Lossarnach.”

He lifted his head, a glint of defiance in his gaze. “Aye, lady, I have been asking about you just as you have for me.”

“So you have,” Arwen murmured, ducking her head down to hide the thrill she felt that Boromir had yet to see through her disguise. “Yet Lossarnach is a large city, and the name of Ioreth is a common one, is it not?”

“You know her then, the healer-woman,” said Boromir, leaning against the closed door of the stall. “You have been to Minas Tirith.”

“Aye, I have,” replied Arwen. “Minas Tirith is a city we both know well.”

She raised her head, and with one hand lifted her heavy braid upwards, so the hair no longer obscured the pointed tip of her Elven ear. Watching as Boromir’s eyes widened, she took three steps forward immediately, closing the gap between them and pressing a hand to his mouth.

“ _Hush_ ,” she hissed. She was of height to Boromir – a fact that, she remembered, was not missed by those who teased ‘Ioreth’ for her interest in ‘Dwyte’ – and she held his gaze firmly, refusing to allow him to turn away. “Do not make a sound of alarm. Ioreth the seamstress is born through great labour, and I will not have you kill her with your surprise.”

Boromir looked at her for another long moment, eyes still wide, before he closed them and nodded. When Arwen dropped her hand back to her side, he made no sound but for the soft, rasping breaths that escaped his lips.

“My Lady,” whispered Boromir finally. He jerked, as if struck, before he shook his head. “Nay, ‘tis ‘Your Majesty’ that I must name you, no?”

“You will do no such thing,” Arwen huffed. She tugged her hair back down over her ears and slouched over, becoming the plain seamstress once more instead of the Queen. “We are both here under false pretences, _my lord_ , and I will not call you by your true name if you hide mine in turn.”

Boromir stilled, and stubbornness set almost immediately into his features. “I am no lord, and I have no name but ‘Dwyte’, Ioreth,” he said, the words half-mangled by gritted teeth.

“Your words carry too much anger for conviction, and they betray you. You knew me immediately, yet there are few mortal eyes who have ever truly looked upon me,” replied Arwen, tilting her head slightly to the side (an Elf-like gesture, she knew). She did not laugh, but instead leaned forward, until their breaths ghosted against each other’s skins. “Do you think my memory has faded? You may wear rags, and your shoulders are no longer as broad, yet your face has not changed, and neither have your eyes.”

There was a long moment of silence as their eyes fixed upon each other, neither willing to back down. Arwen knew beyond a doubt that the Man standing before her was Boromir; knew, too, that Boromir could have made a far greater effort to cast doubts upon her assumption. She had expected him to do so; had collected all the reasons for her belief during the past few days. Yet Boromir did not ask her for it even though he seemed to have gone to great efforts to conceal his true identity from others.

Perhaps he did not dissemble before her now because he was in truth like a child playing hide-and-seek – he wished to be found. Or – she thought wryly – it was more likely that he was taken aback by her revelation, and knew not how to answer the one in front of him who was both Queen and plain working woman; Elf princess and mortal commoner.

How little she knew of Boromir! In her hands she held only guesses without any way of confirming them as truth. Boromir was as much a mystery to her as Men had been before Aragorn, yet instead of frustration or despair Arwen felt excitement thrumming through her veins. There had always been a love for learning within her, and she found that there was delight not only in the learning of the ways of Men as a whole but as their myriad different selves as well.

It was Boromir who turned away first, and he made a soft growl at the base of his throat. There were deeper lines carved into the sides of his eyes now, Arwen noted, and watched as the Man rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, looking tired and almost defeated. Her hand ached to reach out to offer comfort, yet she did not think it would be welcome.

“Why have you come to this village?” he asked finally. “There are dangers here unnumbered, and you are far from any guards who could safeguard your person.” He paused, and rubbed his mouth in a gesture of sheepishness. “Truth be told, you are the last person I expected when I confronted Ioreth.”

“I _am_ Ioreth,” said Arwen mildly, though there was strong steel in her voice. In the last stall, a mare nickered, sounding slightly distressed at the tension that was suddenly snapping in the air. “I have no need for guards, for I have spent long years travelling alone without them.”

She paused for a moment, and could not help but sigh. She did not blame Boromir for his assumptions; the time she spent in Minas Tirith told her that the noble ladies of the city were often kept like hothouse flowers, sheltered, pampered, and constantly guarded. Turning away from him, she headed towards the mare, opening the stall door. The mare nuzzled her cheek, nickering once more, and Arwen stroked the long nose, and her fingers combed through the rough mane.

“You asked for my reasons without giving any of you own,” she pointed out, watching out of the corner of her eyes as Boromir flinched slightly. 

Drawing a piece of carrot out from her pockets, she fed it to the mare, leaning in and blowing her breath over the nostrils. The silence stretched on between them, and when she realised Boromir would not tell her his reasons right now, she shook her head. “No matter.”

Taking a brush from the wall, Arwen started to brush down the mare as she continued. The work busied her hands, and gave her excuse to not look into Boromir’s eyes.

“I am an Elf, though mortal I am now,” she said, keeping her voice low. “For long years I lived within the valley of Imladris and the forests of Lothlórien, and though my father kept strong ties with my uncle’s people, I met them rarely, and understood none until Aragorn.” She shook her head at the thought of the long years wasted – yet how could she have known in her youth that Lúthien’s choice would also be her own?

“Though I know great stores of tales and legends of Men, I have spoken to so few of them.” The mare’s mane was now smooth, and Arwen stroked her nose one more time before she started brushing down her back. “Yet ‘tis Men who acknowledge me as Queen; ‘tis Men whom I hold a great duty to. I will not be a mere prop beside their King, much less stay in the Citadel like a caged bird, forever looking outwards behind glass towards the people who are now mine.” 

Dropping to her knees, she patted the mare’s knee, urging her gently to lift up one foot to check her shoe. “Queens know and hear little, and while my ladies-in-waiting are willing to tell me all they knew, vast knowledge is still kept from me. Poor seamstresses command little reverence, and thus they hear much.” Glancing at Boromir out of the corner of her eyes, she spoke the next words carefully:

“Surely you know that to be true: does Strider not pass unnoticed, able to know the lay of the land and its people far more than Elessar?”

Boromir started at the sound of Aragorn’s names, a look passing over his eyes. Swift it was, and quickly hidden, but Arwen recognised it nonetheless: she saw the same in the mirror whenever she thought of her beloved, and she dipped her head down to hide the smile.

“Gondor is lucky to have you for her Queen,” said Boromir, and his footsteps were silent as he approached her. He held out his hand, and she took it to stand, looking deep into forest-green eyes.

“Nay,” she replied. “’Tis but my duty. To do any less will be to disappoint those who have given me such honour.”

“Am I undutiful in your eyes, then?” asked Boromir, and the uncertainty in his eyes belied his mocking tone. “I have hidden myself away, and no longer serve Gondor as her soldier.”

“Do you judge the farmers, stablehands, weavers, and all those others of this village to be undutiful creatures?” countered Arwen. “Nay, Dwyte serves Gondor still. Though you have chosen to serve in a manner I cannot understand, I will not judge you. You have your reasons, have you not?”

Boromir turned away. “Aye,” he whispered.

Arwen reached up, her tips of her fingers – still smooth and without calluses – brushing over his jaw, drawing his face back towards hers.

“I know you do not wish to tell them to me now,” she told him. “I will not force the words from you. Know this, however: whenever you wish to tell, I will listen, and you can always find me in the inn.”

She took a step away from him, beginning to head towards the stable doors. Too long she had stayed here – there were more chores to be done before sundown – and she had spoken all that she could this time.

“Ioreth,” Boromir called. “What right has a farmhand to the ear of a Queen?”

Blinking, Arwen looked at the Man over her shoulder, giving him a small, soft smile. “As much right as any Man,” said the Queen of Gondor. “However, a farmhand has every right to the ear of a seamstress; did your tongue not name me Ioreth?”

Giving him a small curtsey, Arwen swept out of the stables, leaving Boromir still pondering her words and the strange masks they wore in this small village far from the city he loved.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting schedule is once every five days.

The next morn that rose would be a rest day for all in the village; hence this night, the tavern was crowded and noisy, filled with men who came not only for ale but for conversation as well. When Arwen was still new to the village, she had been shocked by the sheer level of noise and rowdiness a group of Men could create; yet now she had learned to love these nights, for it was when she could listen and learn the most.

Boromir, as his wont it seemed, had hid himself in the farthest corner of the tavern where the light from the roaring fire in the grate could not reach. The hood of his cloak was pulled up over his head, but Arwen could still recognise him, and earlier in the night she had placed a mug of warm ale by his side without allowing their gazes to cross. Their conversation in the stables was but hours ago, and she would leave him to his thoughts and watch the rest of the tavern instead.

The landlord waved her over. “Keep a sharp eye on those men over there,” he whispered over the counter. “They’re strangers passing through, and I don’t like the look of them.” He gave her a worried look. “Will you be alright? I can get Dagmar to serve ‘em instead; she’s good with these rowdy sorts.”

Dagmar was one of the other serving girls in the inn. Arwen knew she used to work as a prostitute on the first level of Minas Tirith; after the battle when the city was half destroyed from the first to third levels, she left and took her belongings with her, travelling to a place where her past would not be looked askance – most here knew what women whose lovers, brothers, and fathers died during the war would have to do to eke out a living.

“I’ll be alright,” said Arwen, giving him a gentle smile. “Thank you, Master.”

“You sure ‘bout that?” The landlord frowned, giving her an uncertain look.

Arwen looked over to the group of men again. They looked like the Rangers of the North in the few times she had caught sight of them in Imladris before they had the time to dress better to appear in her presence: well-worn travelling cloaks, ragged breeches and old boots that seemed that be near falling apart. She gave the landlord another smile before picking up the three tankards and moving across the tavern.

“Elessar’s rule has been bad for business,” one of them was saying, shaking his head. “Time it was when old soldiers like us could find some coin in the guarding of traders’ caravans on the road, but now all think the roads to be so safe that they need no guards!”

“We have no choice but to become farmers or some such,” grumbled another. “Well, I’ve never learned how to wield a rake or a shovel, and I don’t plan to do so now.”

“So what are you planning to do, eh?” the third snorted. “Starve? Come now, there’s still need for hands ‘round here. I’ve been asking ‘round – they’d be glad to have some people come in for the autumn harvest.”

Arwen chose the lull of conversation to step in, her arm blocking the third man from the second’s belligerent glare. “Your ales, sires,” she murmured. Up close, she realised that the men were all war-wounded: one had a long scar that peeked through the collar of his rough cotton shirt; the second had only two fingers left; and the third had a great wound nearly fully-covered by his shirt.

The third man caught her glance, and he grinned. Lifting up the tankard, he drained half of it. “You’re interested in me war wounds, lass?” he laughed, shrugging off his coat. He tugged the shirt down, revealing old, white teeth marks. “An orc took a bite out of me once, but I got lucky ‘cause I was quick enough to jab me dagger into his throat to stop him from doing more. It hurts whenever the wind comes, so I gained a pretty trusty weather-teller along with a good story.”

She could not help staring. Of course, she had seen wounds aplenty in her time, for she often aided her father in healing any and all who came to Imladris in need of such aid. Yet it was not the scar itself that drew her attention but the man, for he spoke of danger with such careless joy, as if it was simply a practice bout gone awry rather than a time when his life was in danger.

Once, Elrohir had told her that he thought Men to truly be the bravest creatures who lived in Arda: Elves knew that they would be reborn even if they died in battle, but Men knew no such thing; many of them were often afraid of their destination after death, yet they dove into battle and risked their lives nonetheless, and often defended their homes with greater passion than even the Elves. She looked upon these Men now, remembering Éowyn Wraithsbane, and vowed to tell her brother that he was right.

“Now you’ve gone and scared her,” the first man scolded, reaching over the table and smacking his companion lightly on the head. He glanced at her, giving her a small smile that twisted the scar at his neck. “Don’t worry ‘bout what he said, lass. I’m sure there ain’t no orcs anymore.”

Arwen made to reply, but any word she could say was immediately cut off at the sound of hands slamming against a table. She turned, startled, and saw a young man – little more than a boy – who was trembling.

“I ain’t lying, I say!” he yelled. “I told you I’ve heard news of ‘em. They said there are orcs coming from the White Mountains, and they’re heading for us! Me own uncle saw ‘em himself, further up north! Are you calling me uncle a liar?”

Out of the corner of her eyes, Arwen saw Boromir jerk suddenly in his seat, his spine turning warrior-straight. Beside her, the three men were stiffening as well, and a two-fingered hand was creeping towards the bread knife and gripping it tight.

“Calm down, Aelred,” one of the boy’s companions chided. “We’re not saying that your uncle were lying; just that maybe he might have been drunk when he saw ‘em.”

Aelred shook his head hard, seeming to wish to speak again, but another of his companions stood. “Look, it don’t matter if his uncle was drunk or not,” he said, and Arwen recognised him to be Sadoc, one of the farmers whose lands were on the outskirts of the village. “If there have been whispers of orcs, I think we better start arming ourselves.”

His words started up a flurry of whispers, so many voices speaking at once that not even Arwen’s Elven hearing could separate one voice from another. The three travellers next to her had their heads bent together, conversing rapidly.

“Oh no, we’re not going to have talk about arming ourselves here, not in this inn,” the landlord’s voice snapped out suddenly, silencing all others. “It’ll be a jinx, that’s what it will be. The moment we start trying to buy swords and such will be the time when the orcs come chasing us, whether they be Aelred’s orcs or not.”

Arwen did not know how to feel: she was proud that they trusted Elessar’s rule so much that they would place their safety wholly in his hands, but at the same time, she did not think the landlord’s words were entirely motivated by the knowledge that he was safe. No; it seemed motivated by suspicion and fear; by strange thought that weapons were harbingers of danger instead of tools for defence. She caught Boromir’s eyes, and saw him shake his head quietly.

“There’d be no sending of messengers to the Rangers of Ithilien or some such thing either,” the landlord continued, his eyes narrowed in warning. “We ain’t going to bring the attentions of lords down on us either, ‘specially if this all turns out to be nothing.”

The murmurs in the tavern had died down somewhat, and most were nodding in agreement. Perhaps they were afraid, Arwen thought. These were war-weary folk; Men who could not wield a weapon but who were destroyed by the consequences of weapons still. 

“Well, that sounds like an invitation if I’ve heard one,” the two-fingered man muttered under his breath as he hefted himself to stand. He cleared his throat loudly, knocking his knuckles on the table.

“Alright, I know many of you prefer to do nothing, but for the some of you who wanted to learn arms and such, you’re in luck. My companions and I,” he waved towards the two men with him. “I’m Beranor.” He took a theatrical bow. “And these are my companions.”

The man with the orc bite still showing on his unclothed shoulder stood and took a deep bow. 

“We’re old soldiers from Minas Tirith,” continued Beranor. “Aye, we fought in the armies during the war,” he said, and Arwen watched as a shudder went through all at the mention of the War of the Ring. 

“If you want to know which end of an orc to stick a sword or even a shovel or rake into, we’ll be staying in this tavern.”

Beranor drained his tankard, setting it hard on the wood before all three left towards the stairs of the inn. The landlord seemed to wish to protest, perhaps to chase them out, but he kept silent for Sadoc stood and followed them immediately. Aelred made to leave, but the woman sitting next to him placed a hand on his arm, shaking his head. A kinswoman of his, perhaps.

The tavern was silent after the old soldiers’ announcement, and Arwen watched the few familiar faces who looked interested in their offer. Three years it had been since Mordor was destroyed, yet the wounds of six hundred years of war were far too deep to be healed over such short years. She turned slightly, glancing at Boromir out of the corner of her eyes.

The hand of the Man who should have been Gondor’s Steward was bunched around his cloak. The warrior missed his sword, Arwen recognised, for her fingers ached in the same way. 

For the first time since she had left Minas Tirith, Arwen felt the deep ache of Hadhafang’s absence by her side.

***

Mortal she might now be, yet Arwen still kept her Elven senses. When she heard the rustling and soft cursing from the storage shed west of the tavern, she smiled to herself and dressed quickly, striding on quiet feet towards the shed.

She pushed the door open quietly, blocking the moon’s light with her body so as to not alarm the inhabitant. Boromir stood in the darkness, his face half-lit by the lantern as he hefted first one rake then another, swinging them through the air as if they were swords instead of farm tools.

“A farmhand you might call yourself, yet you are still a warrior, Boromir of Gondor,” murmured Arwen as she stepped into the shed, allowing the light in.

The Man spun around immediately, hands tightening on the rake he was holding. When he recognised her, however, he only sighed.

“Nay, lady, that is no longer my name,” he said.

Arwen suspected that might be his response; he had deliberately avoided using his true name the last they spoke, leaving the topic to rest for the moment. Now it seemed to have awakened, and Boromir’s eyes were dark even to her Elven sight.

“’Tis your true name,” she murmured.

Boromir snorted, turning from her to place the rake gently back in its place. Arwen took his actions as an invitation, closing the door of the barn behind her as she moved towards him.

“That name is for Gondor’s Captain of White Tower; a corpse long dead and given a better send-off than he deserved,” said Boromir, voice bitter. “Now I am nameless. The villagers call me ‘Dwyte’ – and so had you, lady. ‘Tis a name with little nobility and even less ties to Gondor; fitting for a man who has lost his honour and betrayed his country.”

Arwen took another deliberate step forward, placing her hand on his wrist – not merely for comfort, but to keep him from leaving as she knew he wished to.

“Have you, my lord?” she asked gently. “Have you lost your honour?”

Flashing eyes fixed upon hers, and Boromir growled low under his breath: “Do not mock me with false ignorance, I beg you!” He seemed to sag immediately after the outburst, and continued without any vehemence.

“Surely you have heard the tale of my failure at Amon Hen?”

So it was true, then, the tale she had heard from Legolas and Gimli. Yet it seemed that Aragorn had made a mistake in placing Boromir in the Elven-wrought boat, for how else would the Man be standing in front of her, tormented and alive?

“Aye, I have heard the tale,” said Arwen. She raised a hand, silencing Boromir. “Yet I find your wording strange, for I did not hear a tale of lost honour. Nay, the tale I heard was that of a noble, honourable Man driven to desperation by the love of his country; a Man lured into darkness by an object of pure Evil.” 

She watched Boromir, noting carefully the surprise and raw despair she saw in his eyes, and continued softly, “I heard the tale of a Man who died saving the lives of two small Hobbits, seemingly inconsequential and weak, and how his efforts had helped to save the world entirely.”

Arwen released her fingers, and Boromir stumbled backwards immediately, his back hitting bags of grain with a quiet _thump_. “From whom did you hear this tale?” he asked hoarsely.

“The Ringbearer himself,” she answered. 

“Frodo?” Boromir blinked, and his mouth opened and closed without a sound escaping. He swallowed hard. “Is this a jest?”

“Nay.” Arwen shook her head.

It was the truth: after Frodo’s recovery, she had pressed him for the tale about the missing member of the Fellowship; about the Man mourned by all of Gondor and his friends. She would wish to hear Aragorn tell it to her, but he had never done so, and Arwen suspected that the space of time that had passed after Amon Hen was still insufficient for her beloved’s heart-wounds to be scarred over. Nay, she had seen rawness in Aragorn’s eyes at the very mention of Boromir, and she saw it now again.

Boromir’s eyes had gone distant, staring off into space as if dwelling on an unpleasant memory. Arwen cupped his face with both hands, tilting his head forward until the clouds cleared and he was looking at her.

“I would not have found a dishonourable man here this night, my lord,” she said. “A man without honour would not wish to find any possible way to protect this defenceless village against the evils that are portended to arrive.”

“You assume much, lady,” said Boromir wryly, though he did not protest her use of the title. “How know you that my true plot was not to find ways to attack these villages? Or to steal these stores,” he waved an arm around himself, “for the landlord was fool enough to leave the shed door unlocked?”

Arwen stared at him uncomprehending for a moment before she chuckled, shaking her head. “You are as terrible a liar as you are a judge of your own worth,” she chided gently. “If you are here as a thief, then I would have found you amongst the grains and herbs instead of the farm tools.”

Boromir closed his eyes. His hands closed around her wrists, but he did not push her away. “You are kind,” he murmured. “Yet if I am truly an honourable man, I must tell you that you paint a far sweeter portrait of me than I deserve.”

“’Tis not I who painted such a picture,” corrected Arwen. “’Twas those who knew you best: your brother, your friends, and your King.”

A shudder went through Boromir at the mention of Aragorn, and he squeezed his eyes shut as if to keep himself from weeping. Arwen could not stand such a sight, pulling him into her arms by instinct, her hand stroking through strands of red-gold. His hair had grown long since Imladris, she thought, for it now brushed his shoulders.

“Why are you consumed by despair, Boromir of Gondor?”

Boromir did not answer; Arwen suspected he could not. He only clutched at her shoulders, gasping harsh breaths that ghosted cold across her now-mortal flesh. Arwen wrapped her arms around him, trying to give him comfort, but he flinched from her fingers as if they were brands, stumbling backwards with wild eyes.

“No,” he whispered. “I cannot- you- no.” He shook his head hard, his shoulders trembling as he groped blindly for the stable’s door. “If you knew, you would not-”

The sound of Boromir’s breathing was harsh, scraping at Arwen’s hearing. Yet she could not help but reach out for him, knowing her own eyes were wide and uncomprehending. Her lips were forming silent Sindarin words, trying to calm Boromir down as if he was a horse startled by the crack of lightning.

“Boromir,” she tried. “ _Dwyte_ , please, stay.”

Boromir stilled suddenly, his hands clenched by his side. “You were wrong, lady,” he said, his voice rough as sandpaper and filled with unshed tears. “I am a dishonourable Man, and ‘tis _you_ I have dishonoured most of all.”

He yanked the door open and fled into the darkness, leaving Arwen gaping at the space where he was but a moment ago. Her mind whirled over his words, trying to understand. He had dishonoured _her_? There was naught that Boromir had done that had harmed her and hers in any way; in fact, she owed him a debt of gratitude, for she knew that it was Boromir’s loyalty that gave Aragorn the final push to claim his destiny.

What could he have done to dishonour her?

The cold winds slipped through her cloak and thin nightclothes, chilling her, and Arwen shivered. She picked up Boromir’s lamp, hiding the light behind her hand as she stepped out of the shed. He was headed towards one of the farmsteads in the south of the village, she knew; he bartered for shelter in their barn in exchange for his services. Arwen thought to follow him, yet a sudden image came to her mind of Boromir’s eyes at that last moment before he ran. It was such a desperate look, so filled with self-loathing that Arwen’s heart ached deep in her chest and she shivered once more.

Throughout her time with Men she had realised that many of them carried raw wounds caused by the war beneath their smiling miens. Yet she did not think that any other she knew had a wound that had festered like Boromir’s had; festered until it reached to the depth of his very soul and threatened to twist all the good he owned until he was naught but a shell of a Man.

She wished for the warmth of the morning more than ever. At the first light of the sun, she would stop shivering; when dawn came, she would find Boromir and speak to him once more.

***

The next days passed in a strange, heavy peace that was akin to Arwen’s first few days in Minas Tirith, when all seemed to be unable to help looking constantly to the East as if to reassure themselves that Mordor was truly destroyed and they were safe. The villagers were quiet and tense, and business at the tavern fell especially when the old soldiers kept their promise and began training those interested in an untilled field nearer to the river, near Sadoc’s farm. They would have done so closer to the village, but the landlord had refused their money, and it was with Sadoc that they had found refuge.

Boromir had been absent from his daily visits to the tavern as well, and as each day passed, Arwen’s frustration and anxiety had only grown. Though she knew his whereabouts, she was reluctant to approach him after his outburst, especially since she still could not understand the reasons why he had reacted that way. He would have to come to her first, she decided; any attempt to cross the boundary lines that he had set up would only alienate him from her further.

She had gone through the night’s chores distracted, and almost missed the hissing whispers of her assumed name until one of the other girls touched her shoulder. Whirling around, Arwen stared wide-eyed into Dagmar’s face before she let out a breath.

“You were pretty deep in your thoughts, weren’t you?” asked Dagmar, looking amused. “Well, if it was up to me, I’d have stopped thinking long ago and chased him down. I’d even break down his door if he refuses to see me. With men, there’s no use in waiting for them to come to you.”

Arwen laughed, shaking her head. “You are quite a scourge of Men, then,” she teased back.

“I’ve never hidden what or who I am.” Dagmar shrugged. “If they are interested in me in the first place, they’re probably _waiting_ for me to break down their door.”

She would not have a chance to meet a woman like Dagmar if she had stayed in Minas Tirith, Arwen thought as she laughed. Such brash and unashamed women were unheard of amongst the Elves she knew in Imladris, and she knew that despite Dagmar’s words, she would not be so free with herself if she knew that it was to the Queen of Gondor she spoke. No, such faces were shown only to friends and those who knew were of the same station as they.

“I’m not here to talk about myself, however,” Dagmar said, sobering quickly. “Not entirely, anyhow.”

Cocking her head slightly to the side, Arwen asked, “What is it?”

“Look, the girls and me have been talking.” Dagmar leaned forward, her tone earnest. “We figured that if we put our money all in the same hat, we’d be able to convince those old soldiers to teach us how to fight. We’d have asked after that night in the tavern when we were all thinking ‘bout it, but you weren’t in your bed. So we’re inviting you now.”

Arwen’s heart warmed at the inclusion; she had been here for mere months in comparison to their years, but the girls had invited her into their circle so quickly that it seemed that she had lived here since the village’s beginning. Yet there was darkness too in her thoughts, and she frowned slightly.

“Do you truly think the orcs are coming?”

Dagmar leaned against the wall, eyes cast down as she tugged at the washcloth in her hands. “Even if they’re not, it’d be a good idea for girls like us to learn how to fight,” she said quietly. “The men here are all decent sorts, aye, but you never know when it comes to travellers.” She shook his head. “But aye, I believe they’re coming. I’m sure of it, even.”

A chill ran down Arwen’s spine, and she found herself stumbling forward, grasping the other woman by the wrists. “How are you so certain?” she whispered fiercely.

“You know Sage has a brother-in-law down south on the other side of the river, aye?” Dagmar said, still refusing to meet Arwen’s eyes. “He’s a fisherman, that’s what he is. She got a letter from him recently, saying that he’s seen some orcs coming through that old Path of the Dead near dawn one day. His village stayed up all night in the dark waiting for ‘em, but they were lucky ‘cause the orcs missed ‘em. But he says that they’re coming northwards, towards _us_.”

Arwen stumbled backwards, a hand to her mouth. Her horror was entirely sincere – though she might not worry for her own safety, she could barely imagine the damage that would be done to the village if the orcs attacked. She worried not merely for their bodies and their land but for their minds as well. So many had lost their past livelihoods and nearly their lives to the evils of Sauron’s dark armies; surely such an event would be a nightmare turned flesh to them.

She shivered slightly. “Have you told anyone else?” she whispered.

“We tried to tell the landlord,” Dagmar answered, twisting the washcloth in her hands even harder. “Sage even showed him the letter, but he refused to even look at it. Just a matter of overactive imaginations, he said.” She shook her head. “The people here are afraid and I ain’t blaming ‘em for that, but _I’m_ not going to be left helpless again.”

Looking up, she met Arwen’s gaze with eyes darkened by determination. “So will you come learn with us, Ioreth?”

 _Could_ she? Would she not be exposed if she pretended to learn? Arwen had been taught in the arts of martial valour for most of her life, though she preferred not to fight. Yet she would to protect her people; yet she would not risk the villagers’ lives for her acceptance amongst them. 

“Aye,” she said quietly. “I will.”

Dagmar brightened up immediately. “That’s great to hear, that is. I’ll tell the girls and we’ll work out how much money each of us will fork out, and we’ll tell you. Hopefully we’ll get to start with the old soldiers the day after tomorrow – there’s never anyone in the tavern then, and the landlord can handle it all by himself.”

She gave Arwen another small smile before she left for her chores, and Arwen returned to wiping down the countertop. There was more she would do as well, she thought. No swords were there in the village, but it was surrounded by the woods at the foot of the White Mountains, and her hair would do well enough to serve as bowstring. No metal arrowheads had she, but if she could sharpen strong wood into points and if she chose the wood for the bow well, it would pierce through orc flesh well enough.

***

“I thought I would find you here.”

Arwen raised a hand to shield her eyes from the bright light of the burning torch. She had no need for sight, however, to recognise the Man standing in front of her, and she gasped quietly.

“Dwyte,” she acknowledged cautiously, using the assumed name for she knew not how Boromir would respond to her after the storm of their last conversation.

“Ioreth,” returned Boromir with the barest twist of wryness on his lips. He shook his head, sobering far too quickly. “You have heard the news, then.”

“Aye, I have,” said Arwen. She hesitated for a moment, and Boromir took the chance to take a careful step forward.

“I wish to apologise for my behaviour the last we met,” he said, his voice so stiff and formal that Arwen fancied the dark woods changed into a cold courthouse. “I treated you abominably and…” he trailed off, looking frustrated. Arwen had a distinct, almost amused feeling that he was not a Man used to apologies.

“’Tis no matter,” she replied, shaking her head. “Give no thought to it.”

Boromir looked as if he would protest, but Arwen continued, interrupting him before a single sound could escape his lips, “Will you raise your sword once more?”

He turned thoughtful at the question for a heartbeat’s worth of time before snorting. “Nay, for I have no sword to raise,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “My longtime companion now rusts lonely at the bottom of the sea. I will fight with farm tools and sturdy sticks, my lady, if there is a need, though I know not if my efforts will be enough.”

“To that I have no answer,” replied Arwen. The matter of apologies seemed rested, replaced by more important matters. “I have thought to call upon the armies of Minas Tirith for aid,” she said, “but before that I will have your sworn word that you will not disappear from my sight the moment they arrive.”

Something flashed in Boromir’s eyes, passing so quickly that Arwen could not tell what it was. He turned away from her, laying the torch safe against a patch of bark, making sure that the tree would not catch fire.

“The White City is far from here,” he murmured, refusing to meet her gaze. “’Twill be of no use to call them; they will not be here in time.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Arwen almost immediately. “Yet if we call upon the army, the King will know of the need for soldiers and guardhouses in this remote corner of Gondor. We now look towards the future, Boromir, for ‘tis what I am here for.”

“You ask more of me than you know, my lady,” said Boromir. “Long years have passed since the last I had looked upon the future instead of the past.” Arwen noticed his hands shaking, and though she wished for naught more than to take those rough fingers into her own, she stilled herself, listening.

“Yet I do not understand.” He turned to look at her, and the shine of his eyes resembled tears. “How have you the stomach to look upon the face of a Man who has dishonoured you so?”

Arwen saw her advantage, and though she knew it cruel, she took it. “I will answer your question,” she told him quietly, “if you will answer mine.”

Boromir bowed his head, placing his fist upon his breast. “Aye,” he whispered. “I swear upon my honour that I will not run.”

Aye, Arwen thought, he might claim himself to be a plain Man, yet his every gesture showed his nobility. He had given her his fealty in that one Elven gesture, and Arwen reached out for him, grazing his stubbled jaw with the tips of her fingers.

“A man without honour would not use it as wergild as you have done,” she murmured, coaxing him to look into her eyes once more. “Let me confess, my lord: you spoke those words to me nights ago, yet even now I find myself confused, for I know not your meaning. You have done no dishonour to me as far as I know.”

Boromir parted his lips to speak, but Arwen merely laid her thumb upon his lip, silencing him for that moment. “I know my words will not move your heart, for you hold the belief of your dishonour tightly. Let this then be a test. If the orcs come, let me see with my own eyes if your words or the words of those who love you are true.”

Silence reigned between them for a long moment, their gazes never leaving each other. Finally Boromir chuckled, shaking his head. “You drive a harder bargain than any crone I know, my lady,” he said, teasing her about the meaning of her assumed name. “Through staying put you have determined that I will regain my honour in your eyes, but what if the winds favour us and the orcs do not come? What if there is indeed no need to call upon the armies for aid?”

“What then indeed?” Arwen cocked her head, a smile blooming on her lips haplessly at the sight of the upward curve at the sides of Boromir’s eyes. He was charming beyond words when he smiled, and she suddenly understood part of the reason why her beloved was so captured by this Man. “I suppose that I will device another test. I do not have the gift of foresight, my lord, and I wish not for it. I only wish to make good of whatever time I have upon my hands.”

“A wise philosophy indeed,” said Boromir, smile fading. He pulled away from her, bending down to pick up his torch. “Why waste time thinking of what might come, or what might have been or could be?”

The words were not directed towards her, Arwen knew, and she swallowed the ball of frustration aimed at herself in her throat. She had awakened another of his demons with her carelessness, and Arwen knew not what she could say to exorcise it and bring back his joy. Surely Aragorn would know the right words, she thought, if only due to his greater knowledge and love for this Man.

Yet Boromir was right, and Arwen looked towards the dark woods again. The trees here were strong and old, nigh untouched by the hands of Men throughout the long years when Tarlang’s Neck and the Stone of Erech were greatly feared. She reached upwards, pulling down a branch.

“We must prepare,” she said instead. “’Tis not a glorious war that will come upon us if it comes, but a battle that must be won as quickly as we might.” Looking back, she met Boromir’s eyes again. “I wished to find a yew tree for the body of a bow, and perhaps branches of any ironwood for arrows. If there are none, then ebony, cherry or oak will do well enough.”

Boromir ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was well-versed in naught by the art of war,” he said. “And a farmhand needed little of plant lore than to know what soils grains and fruit trees deserved.” He met her eyes for but a moment. “Truth to be told, my lady, I had hoped to meet you here for I wish to carve a sword out of what we have, and yet I do not know which tree to ask.”

Arwen stared at him for a moment before she laughed. It was nigh unthinkable to her, the daughter of Elrond the Healer, for anyone to not have a full knowledge of plant lore. Yet here was something new! She leapt forward impulsively, grasping Boromir’s wrist and tugging him forward.

“Forgive my laughter; you caught me by surprise,” she apologised, still grinning. “Hold up your torch, my lord, and I will point out the trees for you. For a sword I daresay any one of the woods I have chosen for my arrows will serve you well.”

“Aye, my lady,” said Boromir, stumbling forward. His eyes were fixed upon her, a burning brand at the back of her neck even as she turned deliberately away to search the wood as best she could. “Aye, I see now why Aragorn loves you so,” she heard him whisper barely loud enough for even her Elven ears to hear.

She hid her pleased smile with a hand before walking into the darkness of the woods with the surety of Boromir’s steady footsteps behind her.


	3. Part III

The girls at the inn planned their first practice for ‘the day after tomorrow’, and that was all they had before darkness threatened the village. 

Arwen shot awake deep in the night, hours after sunset and before sunrise. She narrowed her eyes, listening, and could hear the distant sounds of feet splashing in water, of foul voices whispering. 

She found her feet on the cold stone floor as she dressed herself as quickly as she could. Some premonition stopped her from cleaning her face as she went to bed, and Arwen now knew the wisdom of that.

_The orcs are coming_.

Her arrows were precious few but the bow was ready. Or it would be. Arwen needed no light of lamp or fire to pull a strand of hair from her own head and string the bow. She tested the strength of the knots, and was relieved that her new mortality had yet to touch her hair – it was as strong as it had ever been back in Imladris, where Elven ladies would gift the warriors with strands of their own hair for their strings. Not merely because their hair was the strongest material suitable, but also in hope that it would aid them in battle.

There were some superstitions amongst the Elves too, though Arwen had always called it to lore.

Slinging her quiver and bow onto her shoulders, she padded down the steps of the inn silently, not wishing to alarm the inhabitants before the orcs came. They were still some distance away, and only her Elven ears had noted their noises.

Though, she thought wryly, there was one whose senses was just as sharp, or was well-honed to battle and war. 

“I would have them dim all the lights, for surely they draw the orcs here,” Boromir murmured the moment she came up to him. “My blood will not rest this night, my lady.”

“You are a warrior still,” whispered Arwen in return, looking out towards the riverbank. “I hear them. Now they cross the river; ‘twill be an hour or less before they come.”

Boromir’s eyes were bright and startled as he turned towards her, and he gave her a quick grin. “Never do I envy the Elves for their hearing more!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Can you tell how many there are?”

“Nay,” said Arwen. “They are still too far for me to count their footsteps, though…” she tilted her head. “There is one whose footsteps are heavier than the others, and one whose voice is deeper. He groans deeply, Boromir, as if in great rage or distress.”

“That is like to be a troll than not,” said Boromir grimly. “I have known orcs to force trolls into slavery. ‘Twas in Moria that I last saw one, and he was a great beast indeed.” He looked around, eyes squinting in the darkness. “The village will not survive if the beast is set loose here, my lady. That much I am sure of.”

Arwen wished more than ever that there was no danger of orcs and troll approaching; that they were simply conversing, for then she would ask him of Moria and the journey that the Fellowship took together before they were broken. Yet now was not the time.

“Sadoc’s farm is closest to where these foul beasts will reach shore,” she said instead. “Let us head there. Though…” She looked back to the inn. “Some of the old soldiers’ eager students are still abed, and I know not if I should wake them.”

“The girls, I presume,” said Boromir. “I have seen their training, aye, and though they are eager, they are unskilled. Let us leave them be until there is need for them. I would rather that none else raised arms but me unless ‘tis of true necessity.”

Boromir made to go, but Arwen caught his sleeve, pulling him back until he stumbled and nearly fell onto her.

“I will not have you try to protect me during battle,” she hissed into his ear. “I am well-trained in battle, son of Gondor, though I dislike it greatly. ‘Tis my duty to protect _my_ people as much as it is yours. You know as well as I that no one Man is match for any troll, much less a troll accompanied by orcs. Do not be foolish.”

She released him with a soft huff under her breath, and Boromir nearly fell on his face as he gaped at her. Arwen turned away, slinging her bow further up her shoulder as she redid her braid in an attempt to calm her temper.

“Aye, my lady,” said Boromir eventually, sounding wry. “I will not underestimate you.”

“I will hold you to those words,” returned Arwen. “Come now; time is running short, and we must go.”

For a brief moment, it looked as if Boromir had a remark on his tongue. Yet he only smiled, straightening as he followed her.

*

A fire blazed in the midst of Sadoc’s house, and as Arwen neared the place, she could hear low tones of conversation. Surely, she thought wryly, it was possible to remove the soldier from the war, but it was a nigh unmanageable task to remove the war from the soldier. There must be work found for good Men like these, Arwen decided to herself, so they would not be forced to stumble blindly and grasp for some form of work they were unsuited for.

Boromir rapped on the door with the top of his solid staff, made from a single branch of ebony wood that took much strength to cut. Inside, all sounds stopped immediately.

“Who is it?” a voice called out.

“’Tis a friend,” replied Boromir. “Though one who brings bad tidings.”

Arwen stepped closer, and heard a whispered hiss: “Come on, Sadoc! ‘Tis Dwyte. You know he’s on our side.” She hid a grin behind her hand.

The door pulled open and a stocky man scowled at them both. “Come in.” He jerked his head. “We’re keeping vigil, so you best tell us what bad tidings you bring.”

Lowering her head as she stepped over the threshold, she watched as Beranor raised his two-fingered hand in salute. 

“Pleasant evening, Dwyte,” he said, voice full of irony despite the bright joy in his eyes and the sudden release of tension from his shoulders. Arwen found herself smiling too as the thought of Boromir’s company being so welcomed.

The man with the orc scar leaned forward, grinning. “And who have you brought with you?”

“That’s Ioreth from the inn,” answered one of the other old soldiers, looking up and grinning wide enough to tug at the scar at his throat. His name was Ric, Arwen remembered, and his companion was Hallam.

Arwen gave the Men a short curtsey, pretending her thigh-length tunic was a dress despite the breeches beneath. She swallowed her laughter for a woman of ‘Ioreth’s’ station would not be so free with men, and watched them beneath her eyes indeed.

“Your clothes are well-made,” said Sadoc unexpectedly. “Did you make them yourself?”

“Aye,” replied Arwen. “I am a seamstress by trade.”

“A seamstress who carries a bow and is willing to walk into battle with orcs?” asked Ric, scepticism clear in his voice. “I’ve never met one like that.”

“Now you have,” Arwen returned.

“’Tis best to not question her,” said Boromir, sounding amused. “Or you’d be given a good talking to, and I’d rather not go through _that_ again.”

The old soldiers looked surprised, exchanging a swift glance amongst themselves. Arwen supposed that they were used to women of Minas Tirith, though those thoughts might be unfair as Dagmar hailed from that city, and she was as brave of heart as any man.

She heard the thumping of heavy feet on grass-spread ground, coming from afar and growing nearer. The orcs had reached shore minutes before she and Boromir had arrived at Sadoc’s farm, and now it seemed they were coming close. Arwen’s mind raced, trying to find a way to warn the Men to prepare for battle without giving away her identity.

Hallam spoke then, however, rubbing at his shoulder. “This old orc bite of mine is a useful thing,” he said, grinning. “It tells me when others of its ilk are coming. We better start gathering our weapons, lads, or else they’d start storming through our doors.”

Ah, so there was no need for her to speak, then.

The Men began moving quickly. The old soldiers drew their swords, long steel blades that shone no longer but were well-sharpened and strong still. Sadoc took a sword from the wall, and Arwen thought it was like as not to be an old heirloom, for Gondor’s armies no longer made weapons in that particular style.

As they stepped out of the door, Arwen approached Boromir, placing a gentle hand on his elbow before speaking.

“There are ten orcs,” she whispered, “and a troll follows them in chains.”

Boromir paused for a moment before he shook his head. “Never have I wished more to be wrong,” he told her. “There are too many for us, if your ears tell truth.”

“They do,” said Arwen. She spoke the next words quickly, for she knew the other men were glancing curiously at them. “My lord, I will suggest that all of us make as much noise as we can. Wake the village. If they cannot fight, then they might still run.”

Giving her a silent nod, Boromir stepped away from her and melded into the darkness. She watched out of the corner of her eyes as he appeared next to Beranor, muttering quickly into his ears, before he darted forward to the front of their haphazard line again.

Leaves rustled in the thin woods surrounding the farmstead. The first orc burst out of the clearing, and Arwen’s fingers were drawing an arrow the moment her eyes caught the light of the moon on its dark armour. The wooden shaft flew, embedding itself in the creature’s eye. He roared suddenly, writhing as he fell onto the ground.

There was no time for thinking, much less orders. All knew what they had to do for the sake of saving their own lives. The battle was upon them as orcs burst out into the clearing, screaming in their distorted speech, no longer caring about silence. Boromir dived into the fray, his staff held with two hands.

“For Elessar!” he cried. 

The orc she had first shot was stumbling to stand, blood and drool mixing around his mouth as he growled, half-blinded. He grabbed the arrow and pulled it out from his eyes. Arwen saw her chance, diving forward and drawing another arrow from the quiver slung across her back. She did not fire it, however; instead, she took the sharpened tip and shoved it into the gap she could see between the creature’s armour, right into its throat.

Black blood splattered on her clothing. Arwen picked up the arrow still held in that gnarled, twitching hand, and turned to face the battlefield. All Men were fighting, and the orcs not engaged in the battle was turning towards the village in search for easier prey. Arwen found herself torn, forced to make a quick choice: to watch her people or the enemy. She was firing the bloodied arrow into the back of a running orc when the choice was made for her.

She heard the heavy sound of clanking chains, and a loud roar made the trees themselves tremble. The troll burst into the clearing right behind her, chained still to the last orc. The orc gave her a malicious grin before he let go of the chains and ran towards the village.

The troll, now freed, bellowed again. 

“The Valar bless us,” she heard Sadoc mutter under his breath.

Arwen ducked before she knew what she was doing, barely avoiding a sudden swipe from the troll. She was dizzied from the volume of the roar, but she knew she was in the perfect position to kill it. Running around the creature, she grabbed hold of the chain.

“Dwyte!” she yelled, barely having sense enough to choose the correct name to use. “Help me!”

The troll turned to her, and it clutched at its own chain, shaking the metal links hard. Arwen felt her feet slipping, but Boromir appeared in front of her suddenly, gripping onto the links.

“Hold on!” he yelled. If Arwen had the breath, she would tell him she was doing _precisely_ that.

But the troll was strong, immensely strong. It shrieked again, blinding them with spittle. Arwen gasped as she found herself literally swept off of her feet, sent flying by the back of one huge hand, and her shoulder burst with pain as she slammed hard into the soil, tearing out grass by its roots with her landing.

It was likely to be a mountain troll, Arwen thought as she got back to her feet. She shook her head hard, her eyes searching for Boromir immediately. He laid face down a little distance from her, and just as she was about to call for him, he pushed himself up with his arms, his entirely body shuddering as if shaking off dizziness as well.

The troll was heading for the village. Arwen started to run immediately, hearing but not acknowledging the shouts of the Men behind her. There was no time to reassure them, and Arwen reminded herself to apologise for her rudeness after the battle was done. 

There _had_ to be some weak spot behind the creature, she thought. She drew an arrow and let it fly, hissing in triumph as it sunk into the orc’s shoulder. Yet her smile faded quickly, for the creature did not even seem to have noticed the wound, and continued its storming walk towards the heart of the village. Arwen stood there stock still for a moment, her mind empty as to what to do.

“A troll’s skin is too thick for an arrow to be felt, Ioreth,” Boromir panted next to her, and Arwen nearly jumped at the sound, for she was too preoccupied to hear him. “Legolas killed one with arrows, but he had many and a Mirkwood bow.” He wiped at his mouth, still panting. “And that was a cave troll, not a mountain one.”

Arwen looked at him for a long moment, taking in the bright light that was in his eyes. _You are no farmhand_ , she knew. 

“How shall we take it down, Dwyte?” she asked instead.

“I have no idea.” Boromir barked a laugh, “We will have to chase it first.”

They started running after the troll in tandem. Was it strange to feel joy mixed with fear? Arwen knew not. She claimed to Boromir that she was well-trained, and had not thought of her own safety all this while. Yet now she was afraid even though she knew what had to be done. The skills she owned, aye, yet she had only met ‘battle’ in Imladris, in sparring against her brothers or her teachers, in a place where she knew beyond all doubts that she would be safe. Not even running from the Nazgûls was a battle, for she was running away instead of _towards_ like she was now.

Truly, she was untried and untested. Arwen found herself laughing suddenly, gladder than ever to have given up her immortality. Surely she would not have felt this strange exhilaration in Valinor; surely she would have never realised how sweet the sound of blood pounding in her ears. Surely she would not have ever felt the excitement of a new experience, a new discovery.

“Dwyte!” she called, grinning helplessly. “I am about to do a foolhardy deed, and I would dearly like you to aid me!”

Without waiting for his answer, Arwen ran as quickly as she could. The hard soles of her leather boots hit the troll’s ankle as she leapt, and she caught hold of her own arrow. Grabbing hold of the wide, leathery neck, Arwen swung herself upwards until her feet balanced right on top of the troll’s shoulders. 

The troll slowed down, turning its head up to look at her, clearly confused. Arwen took her chance – she yanked the arrow from its skin and shoved it into its eye. The shaft did not sink deeply enough to penetrate its brain, but it was certainly enough to agitate the troll: it roared, its huge hands swiping upwards. Arwen nearly fell before she swung herself to stand on one shoulder where the troll was blinded towards. She took another arrow, but the troll shambled sideways, and the wooden shaft fell.

Her quiver was empty.

“Ioreth!” Boromir’s voice had never given her more relief. Though, she noted a little distantly, he sounded horrified. 

“Dwyte!” she yelled down at him, not even bothering to try to meet his eyes. The troll was spinning around itself, clawing at his own face and neck and shoulders as if trying to rid himself of a particularly annoying bug. Arwen’s ears rang from its constant howls. “Give me your staff!”

“What? What are you doing?” 

“Give me your staff!”

“How—” Arwen didn’t hear what Boromir meant to say next, because the troll lurched forward suddenly. Her arms flailed, trying to hold on, and she gripped onto the very arrows still within the troll’s eye socket for balance. A huge hand caught her in its grip, but Arwen leaned backwards, pulling out the wooden shafts. The troll shrieked in pain, his hand releasing her, and Arwen swung herself back up on its shoulders.

Boromir’s staff headed towards her, flying like a lance, and Arwen caught it with both hands and nearly fell over again. She threw herself forward, using not her hands but some sort of instinct as she shoved the staff into the troll’s eye, tilting it upwards, and sank it as deep as it could until it surely reached the brain. She held on tight to the ebony, but the troll found her again, grabbing her by the collar and yanking _hard_.

The wood cracked; broke underneath her hands. Arwen squeezed her eyes shut as she felt herself flying through the air. She found herself thinking inanely of Frodo and Bilbo, and how they might have felt while riding on the back of the great eagles.

A pair of strong arms caught her, knocking all air out of her lungs. Arwen threw her arm upwards, gasping, but hands caught her wrist.

The face staring down to her was only recognisable from the bright green eyes, for Boromir’s red-gold hair was splattered with black blood that was dripping down, mixing with red from the gash on his temple. When he caught her staring, he tried to wipe his face, but seemed to realise that he would have to shift her in his arms, and stopped.

Behind them, a loud _thud_ resounded.

“I need to sit down,” she said suddenly, and was surprised by the hoarseness she heard.

“Alright.” 

When the ground could be felt from beneath her fingertips, Arwen pushed herself as far from Boromir as she could. She turned her face away and felt herself retching. Where was the battle-high she had revelled in but moments ago? Now there was only a cold stone in her stomach that had her shaking and trembling. Perhaps it was because of the smell – the sickly stench of dead troll and orc that permeated the air around them.

Boromir’s hand was warm on her shoulder, and Arwen let herself be pulled backwards, winding her arms around his neck as he wrapped his arms carefully around her.

“Is the village safe?” she whispered.

“Aye,” he chuckled, his breath ghosting across her earlobe. “All of them acquitted themselves well. You would’ve seen them, lady, if you had not been on top of a troll.”

Arwen tried to laugh, but could only cough instead, trying to swallow down bile.

“Forgive me,” Boromir murmured, his fingers warm on her neck. Arwen knew not what his apology was for, and she had no chance to ask because he continued immediately, “Was this your first battle?”

Was it? She was tempted to deny it, yet… “Aye.”

There was a short silence. Arwen shivered, feeling cold and trying to lean further into Boromir’s warmth.

“You did much better than I had during my first,” said Boromir, sounding amused. “I certainly didn’t take down a troll.” His knuckles rubbed gently against her cheek, and the soft kiss he pressed into her hair made Arwen’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. It was surely painful, but he made no sound of complaint.

They might be in the middle of the village at the moment. Arwen did not know and could not bring herself to care. She closed her eyes and focused upon Boromir’s scent from beneath the stench of orc and troll. Like sun and grass it was. Unbidden, she was reminded of Aragorn, for _he_ embodied the snow and the stars for her.

Snow and grass; sun and stars; aye, perhaps there was a deeper meaning coded in the scents the Valar had woven into their skins.

***

If the village had its way, all would have hailed ‘Dwyte and Ioreth’ as heroes for defeating the mountain troll that so many shivered in fear just looking upon. Yet the supposed champions refused to admit their bravery, preferring to speak about the strength of all others instead, and eventually the village was convinced.

Still, Arwen was glad for the attention, if only because the village became rowdier than it had ever been, with constant celebrations. Though care was still taken to ensure that all would have enough to eat during the oncoming winter, there were feasts in the tavern and the ale flowed freely for the week.

Praise flowed as freely, even from the landlord’s lips. He protested against battle before it arrived knocking at its door, yet he spent days commending the servant girls to high heavens, for they had taken down one orc by themselves with naught but long knitting needles, heavy metal pans, and sheer bravery. Dagmar had led the charge; now even those who had once looked askance at her for her previous occupation was full of admiration, for, they said, it was surely her efforts that allowed the inn to remain standing.

The old soldiers were begged to stay, and Arwen noticed a new light in Beranor’s eyes as he gazed upon Sage. Sage herself was shyer in her affections, but Arwen had heard her protest fiercely to Dagmar that Beranor was made handsomer by his plentiful scars, and if he could wield a sword well with two fingers, there was surely naught of which he was incapable.

Perhaps there would be a wedding in the autumn, Arwen thought, and she wished she could witness it. Arwen knew she would not, for the morning before the battle she had begged a young dove a favour, and sent her flying eastwards with a small scroll tied to her leg. The soldiers of the capital were riding fast here, she knew, for she had sent the dove straight to Aragorn, with a coded message informing him of Boromir’s return. She knew not if the King could beg leave from his duties, but she would not have him rudely shocked by their arrival.

For Arwen had determined that Boromir would return with her to the city. It was not by foresight that she had so decided, but sheer will.

Boromir seemed to have gained some idea of her intentions, for it was only after the week’s revelries had passed that she managed to find him alone long enough to speak. It was in the stables, in the dark of the night when the village was asleep and all was silent.

Arwen leaned against the doorway of the stables. “You made me a promise, son of Gondor,” she said quietly.

Hands paused on the bridle, and Boromir turned to her. He seemed unsurprised to find her standing there. “I swore upon my honour, my lady, and I have none. What need have I to keep it?” he challenged her, his head raised in defiance.

Shaking her head, Arwen took another step inside the stables. Like a spooked horse Boromir was, she noted, amused, for he twitched at the soft sound of her slippers against the wooden floor.

“Even if your honour was lost years ago, you have regained it by once more defending those who could not protect themselves,” her voice was firm, brooking no argument. “You did so at a great personal cost, for surely the village will wish to know the true name of the one who took down a mountain troll.”

Boromir shook his head. “The troll was vanquished by _your_ efforts, lady, not mine.”

“Was it, truly?” asked Arwen, cocking her head to the side. “You are quick to shift the credit, and slow to see the admiration your efforts have wrought you. ‘Twas your staff that sank into the troll’s eyes.” She paused, and knew there was no use in quibbling about such a small point; not when there was something far more important she had to make Boromir see. “’Twas _you_ the villagers trusted in for their protection. I have seen their eyes as they look upon you. I daresay even the landlord would pick up arms once more if you promise to fight by his side.”

Hanging the bridle back up on its metal hook, Boromir sighed, his hands dropping to his side. “’Tis a trust based on false grounds, lady,” he said. “They will look upon me with different eyes if they know what I have done.”

“Do you think the minds of Men so fickle?” demanded Arwen, taking another step forward. Boromir’s stubbornness was almost too much for her to bear; how could he not see all the qualities of greatness that lay within his breast when Arwen saw them all so clearly? “Discount not the long years of service you have rendered Gondor, Boromir, for they will not, and have not. Of the Nine Walkers, ‘tis Boromir the Bold who is most greatly praised amongst Men.”

“They should not praise that name!” Boromir shouted, striding forward and grabbing her by the shoulders. “I am an Oathbreaker, my lady, no better than the Dead who used to haunt this valley. I broke my word! I attacked the Ringbearer whom I swore to protect!”

Boromir’s grip was tight on her shoulders, but Arwen barely noticed. She reached up, cupping his face between her hands, staring deep into his eyes.

“Did you, truly?” she murmured. “I remember the words you spoke at the Council, Captain of the White Tower. _Gondor will see it done_ , you said. Your word was not broken; nay, it was fulfilled in full.”

“How do you—” Boromir gaped at her. “I did not see you—”

“I daresay that there was no Elf in Imladris who missed a word spoken at the Council, ‘secret’ though it might be,” said Arwen wryly. “All of you made such a racket that we heard every word even if we did not wish to listen.”

Arwen herself, however, had set upon listening with all determination. Her father might have kept her away from Council, but she would know the fate of her chosen beloved nonetheless.

“So now you know, Boromir,” she continued. “Gondor had seen it done. ‘Twere the armies of Gondor and Rohan joined that stood at the Black Gates to draw Sauron’s Eye away from Mordor. ‘Twas Gondor’s King who led them.”

She took a deep breath, steeling her voice. “Gondor saw it done.”

Boromir fell silent for a long moment, his head bowed. He stepped back, retreating to a corner of the stables with his hands tight upon his own elbows. 

“You heard my voice in the Council, my lady. ‘Twas I who declared that Gondor needed no King, when Ara-” he choked, swallowing hard, “ _he_ was what Gondor needed most of all. My arrogance blinded me; it made me unsuitable and dishonourable.”

Stubborn, _stubborn_ Man! Arwen was tempted, in that one moment, to reach out and grab him by the collar of his rough shirt and shake him hard until he saw sense. She seemed to be talking herself hoarse with no effect, for Boromir seemed absolutely _determined_ to think the worst of himself. She could not understand it.

Arwen took a deep breath, calling upon the long centuries of life to calm the beating of her heart. She stared at her own hands, soot-covered as they were, and wished more than ever that Aragorn had trusted her with the tale of Amon Hen. The silence stretched out between them, like a thread pulled tight moments before it was bitten short.

There was one other she knew that was as stalwart as this Man before her, and Arwen suddenly found words on the tip of her tongue.

“Long years I spent with Aragorn,” she said finally. “Long years I tried to convince him that he would make a worthy King, all in vain.” She reached out for Boromir again, her fingers closing gently over his wrist. “He could not believe in the strength of Men, and believed them weak. I believe ‘twas partly due to my own father’s teachings.”

She shook her head. “I loved him for the very flaws and failings he attributed to Men, but I could not make him believe in his own strength ‘Twas _you_ , Boromir, who found Gondor’s King and returned him to his rightful place. I know this to be true.”

There were words that Aragorn would mutter sometimes in the dead of the night, when he thought her full-asleep and unaware. He would leave the bed and walk towards the balcony, looking out towards the city that was now his. They were words he kept so deep within his heart that even Arwen could not reach them unless by device and deviousness. Aragorn kept them in a cold, locked room within himself, and Arwen had always allowed him to keep it close, for she knew the presence he missed.

Taking a step forward, she released those words, returning them to their rightful owner.

“Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty. But there is courage also, and honour to be found in Men.”

Boromir gasped, stumbling back. His back smacked hard against the stall, causing the stallion inside to whinny loudly. Arwen reached out for him, holding him tight in her arms as they huddled together like children seeking comfort in a storm.

“You taught him those words, son of Gondor,” she murmured, turning her head and pressing a soft kiss on the temple. She smelled salt in the air, and turned her head away so she could pretend to not feel the tears that soaked into her shoulder.

_He loves you still_ , she did not say. _He loves you in a manner that he might have loved_ me _if I had not the courage to turn away from the ships. He loves you as one he thought lost, and I will return you to him. I do not begrudge his love: ‘tis far too clear to my eyes that you are deserving of it._

_Aye, you deserve even more._

__Boromir made a strangled sound, a half-sob, and Arwen stroked her hands through his hair.

“A single mistake does not rule the life of a Man unless he allows it so,” she whispered. “Do _not_ allow it. Come home with me.”

Boromir’s hands scrabbled at Arwen’s arms, pulling her even closer, burying his face into her hair and taking a shuddering breath. It warmed and chilled her skin both. 

“Aye,” he whispered, hoarse. “Aye, I will come home with you.”

_To him_ , they both knew.

There was a strange joy, Arwen thought, of a heart’s pain as it split in twain.


	4. Part IV

The next days passed with such a strange tension between Arwen and Boromir that Dagmar asked if all was right, and if they had quarrelled. Arwen despaired then, for her long years of living were inadequate at supplying her with words that could help Dagmar understand that they avoided each other not for hatred but for the deep ache in their heart whenever they were together or even looked upon each other. So she could only shake her head, trying to reassure, but Dagmar remained unconvinced. 

They were waiting for the King they both loved so well; the Man whose absence they felt with every second they breathed. Strange it was: when Arwen’s heart belonged wholly to Aragorn, it did not pain her nearly as much, for she knew it rested well in his hands though he was far from her. Yet now she thought she might hold half of Boromir’s heart in her hands, and it was a fragile thing, constantly pulling and tugging her eastwards towards Minas Tirith, towards the King who unknowingly held the other half. 

So it was a great disappointment that greeted her when she saw that it was Faramir who was in the leader’s camp. She had heard the soldiers coming through Tarlang’s Neck, and she crossed the river before dawn. 

The Steward of Gondor stood at her arrival, giving her a wry smile when he saw her face. “My apologies, my lady – I know ‘twas not I whom you were expecting.”

Arwen could not help but duck her head, embarrassed at her loss of control. Surely she had learned to hide herself much better by now, after so long spent concealing her true identity from the villagers. Surely she had known it possible that Aragorn would not be here to greet her: his duties weighed heavier on him than ever, so few years after the end of the war when there was so much left to be done. Duty had parted them often in the long years they had known each other, yet disappointment had never tasted so bitter. 

“No, ‘tis…” She stilled her wringing hands with an effort. “Is anything the matter in Minas Tirith?” _Is that why Estel is not here?_

“Much work is left for the King to oversee in the East if we wish to reclaim Minas Ithil before winter comes,” replied Faramir. He picked up a heavy envelope from his desk, holding it out to her. “He entrusted me with a letter to give to you.”

_I do not want a letter_ , Arwen cried deep in her heart. _I wish for naught more than his presence_. She swallowed the words, instead taking the letter and hiding it deep in her sleeve. Later she would read it and pore over every word, but now Faramir deserved her full attention.

She took a long and careful look at him. Faramir was a stranger to her still, for his duties often took him far from Minas Tirith to Ithilien where he was Prince. When he was in the Capital, he was more oft to be in private counsel with the King, and Arwen had little opportunity to speak to him. Yet, Arwen thought, only the blind would have missed the tension at the sides of his eyes and the strained nature of his smile.

He knew, then, the true reason why he was called here.

“Forgive me,” she said quietly. “I have been selfish. My words are true, my lord Steward – I have found your brother.”

Faramir gasped, stumbling, his hands scrabbling at the edge of his desk before he gripped the thin wood tightly. He stared at her, eyes uncomprehending, and Arwen nodded once more.

“He is in the village over the river. They have named him ‘Dwyte’, and that is the name he now answers to.”

“A Rohir name,” murmured Faramir. “Why has he hidden himself from us, my lady? Why did he not—” He trailed off, eyes faraway, but Arwen heard his words nonetheless, for she had pondered the same for many days.

_Why did he not come home?_

“I know not the full measure of his tale,” replied Arwen. She shook her head. “Even so, my lord, ‘tis not my tale to tell.”

Faramir’s eyes widened. “He has told you nothing?”

Arwen blinked, taken aback. “He has not,” she confirmed. “There is little reason for him to, my lord; we met but once in Rivendell before this, and much of him is still a mystery to me.”

Ducking his head, Faramir rubbed the back of his neck. The gesture was so much like Boromir – not to mention the physical resemblance Faramir bore to his brother – that Arwen found her breath snatched out of her lungs. She wondered, distantly, if it had ever hurt Aragorn to look upon Faramir and to see the man whom he thought he had lost. Her heart ached too for Faramir, for surely he was reminded of his brother whenever he looked into a mirror and saw the same red-gold strands, proud nose, and high cheekbones.

“Forgive me, my lady. I presume…” Faramir shook his head. “He had surely recognised you, and yet he stayed. I had thought that you had convinced him to do so.”

“’Twas not I who convinced him to stay but his own honour,” Arwen told the Steward of Gondor. “Though he knows I called Minas Tirith for aid, he did not break the promise he made to me.”

Faramir dealt her a suddenly sharp glance, eyes narrowing.

“I see,” he said eventually, sighing. “The time that passed since the last I saw my brother has been short indeed, but so much has changed in the world that I now feel that he is a stranger to me.” He hesitated, meeting Arwen’s gaze almost shyly. “Will you tell me of him, my lady? I wish to know more before I look upon him again.”

He paused. “Perhaps ‘tis foolish—”

“Nay,” Arwen interrupted. “I will be glad to tell you more of Dwyte.”

They took seats in the rickety little chairs in the corner of the tents. Arwen was reminded once more of the first time she met Boromir, and wished inanely for teacups and leaves to busy her hands. Instead, she took out Aragorn’s letter, rubbing her fingers over the wax seal stamped with the Ring of Barahir.

“You knew a warrior, my lord, a soldier of Gondor, but in the village you will find a farmhand,” she said quietly. “He has grown much thinner, though he is still strong, and his hair and beard are unkempt.” She gave Faramir a wry smile, “I say he resembles more of a Ranger of the North than the Captain-General of the White Tower. He works with cows and horses now, and not even the dealings with the orcs did he use a sword. No; he chose a staff, like a shepherd.”

“My lady,” Faramir interrupted. “About the orcs…”

She waved a hand. “They had long been dealt with. I saw few men outside, my lord; I’m sure you have already predicted that.”

Faramir nodded. His eyes were solemn, and Arwen felt her momentary mirth fading quickly. Staring down once more at the thick, creamy paper in her hands, she continued, “Boromir is haunted, my lord. He is far more uncertain than he ever was in Imladris. Then, he was a strange land, but he still knew his place. Yet now he seems a man lost. He _clings_ to Dwyte, unwilling to reclaim his true name, but he is a warrior still. Of that I am certain. He fought against the orcs like any warrior wishing to protect, and though the villagers do not know his true identity, he views them as his people still.”

“My brother has always been far more a warrior and soldier than I,” murmured Faramir, deep in thought.

Arwen bit her lip, nodding. “Aye. I wager ‘tis the events of Amon Hen that will not leave him be. He believes he lost his honour then, though I have tried many a time to convince him otherwise. Has…” she hesitated a moment, glancing at Faramir out of the corner of her eyes. “Has Elessar told you of what happened then?”

“Nay.” Faramir shook his head. “I know only of what Pippin has told me. I asked the King if he would tell me of my brother’s last moments, but he refused, saying the grief was still too near.”

“He told me the same,” Arwen replied, disappointment clenching her heart tight in its fist. 

She had hoped that Aragorn would have told Faramir more, for they were both Men who loved Boromir deeply. Yet it seemed that Aragorn kept all deep within his own heart, refusing to even share the burdens of grief with his Steward and his Queen. Perhaps only Boromir was allowed to enter that locked, mournful place in his heart. Would Aragorn ever release his sorrow if Boromir had not been found? Arwen knew not, and she found another reason to be glad that she had found Boromir in this village.

“Will… will tonight be too soon to find him?” Faramir asked, his voice jerking Arwen out of her thoughts. His eyes were dark with unspoken words.

“There are no words that will dissuade you,” said Arwen wryly. She stood, hiding Aragorn’s letter in her sleeve again.

“Come alone, my lord. Assure your loyal soldiers of your safety, and I will bring you to your brother. I know his lodging-place.”

She turned to leave the tent, but Faramir caught her sleeve.

“My lady,” the Prince of Ithilien said urgently. “No words suffice to thank you for what you have done. You have brought my brother back to me when I thought him lost forevermore. If there is aught I might do, now or in the future…”

Arwen smiled. “There is no need for thanks, my lord,” she murmured. “I have my own reasons to rejoice at Boromir’s return. I wish only for you to convince your brother to come home with us to Minas Tirith, where so many miss him still.”

Faramir lowered his head, raising her hand to press a soft kiss on the knuckles.

“If we have to linger here for years or decades, my Queen, we will do so,” he said, the steel in his voice ringing clear. “’Twill be with my brother that we return to the city, or not at all.”

***

“Are you truly leaving with Dwyte, Ioreth?”

Arwen’s hands paused above the mule, turning around, unsurprised to see Dagmar standing behind her.

“Aye, I am,” she replied steadily, turning back to heave the last of ‘Ioreth’s’ meagre belongings onto the mule.

She would be leaving on the beast until they were a few miles away from the village, then it would be used for only for the carrying of provisions and she would ride a horse back to Minas Tirith. Arwen asked Faramir for the measure for it seemed unlikely that a seamstress would be comfortable on a proper horse, and she would rather not break the illusion that she had so carefully woven these past months.

“It’s a shame to lose the both of you at once,” sighed Dagmar. “We meant what we told the soldiers. If we have to choose a leader of the village, it’d be the either of you, especially after what you did with the troll.”

“Sadoc will do much better,” Arwen replied lightly. “I am ill-suited for a position so grand.”

Dagmar gave her a sly look. “I’d say that it’s a position that ain’t grand _enough_.”

Arwen stared at her, and it was with honest surprise that she said, “What do you mean?”

Shaking her head, Dagmar laughed. “Nothing. ‘Tis only that soldiers make for bad liars, and they have loose tongues when you’ve watered ‘em enough with ale.”

Faramir’s soldiers kept mostly to themselves within the village, with the exception of the Steward and his right hand Beregond, both of whom seemed impossible to pry from Boromir’s side. The only other soldiers in the vicinity were the old soldiers, and Arwen knew they had not recognised her.

She blinked at Dagmar, eliciting another bout of laughter from the woman.

“In any case, Minas Tirith is a grand city,” she said, smiling at Arwen as if they two shared a secret none else knew. “I left too early to see her, but they say that the Queen is an Elf. That’d be a grand sight to see, wouldn’t it?”

Arwen kept her hand still as she could by her side, resisting the urge to touch her hair and check that the strands still covered her Elven-pointed ears.

“’Twill be grand indeed,” she murmured for the lack of anything else to say. 

Dagmar sobered almost immediately, and she gave Arwen a small smile, uncertain at the edges.

“All jokes aside, Ioreth… if you are ever sick of the city, you can always come back here. We’ll give you a right welcome. Dwyte can come too if he so wishes. I reckon Sadoc’d open his doors for him easily enough.” She chuckled. “I’d offer him my lodgings, but I’m a respectable woman now.”

“Dagmar—” Arwen tried to say.

“We won’t forget you both,” she said, her eyes suddenly serious, gaze burning into Arwen’s. “Our children will be told the story of how Ioreth and Dwyte managed to smite a mountain troll with just a few wooden sticks and sheer bravery. We won’t forget you, so…” she jerked her head away, biting her lip. “So don’t forget ‘bout us once you’ve gone to the city, alright?”

Arwen’s heart ached deep in her chest, and she reached out, pulling Dagmar into her arms and holding her tightly. “I will not,” she said, voice hoarse. “I promise that neither of us will. If Dwyte shows any sign of forgetting, I will bring him back here so he will be reminded of all that you have done for him, for us.”

She knew the promise was true. The memories of Elves would never fade; if she was ill-fated enough to live until the ending of Arda, she would remember this short time she spent with these Men, and all the love and care they had given her and she had tried her best to return.

Closing her eyes, she let the tears fall. The Queen of Men did not cry in front of her people, and neither did an Elven princess in front of any who was not of her family; but Arwen was no royal here. She was merely a seamstress from Lossarnach named Ioreth, and despite all that she concealed from them, they still loved her.

“I’ll keep you to your word,” said Dagmar fiercely, pulling from Arwen’s arms so their eyes could meet. “I’ll remember what you said, Ioreth, if I ever go to Minas Tirith again.”

Arwen nodded. Dagmar took another look at her before she wiped her eyes, smiling through her tears.

“I’d better make sure that Sadoc’s giving the soldiers a proper farewell,” she murmured. “A good job we did choosing a leader – we picked one who has no skills with words.”

She turned and walked swiftly back into the inn, and Arwen was left alone. She busied her hands with the mule’s bridle, giving herself some moments to swallow her tears before she had to return to Faramir as the Queen of Gondor once more.

Barely a few heartbeats passed, however, before she was interrupted again.

“They are good people, all of them.”

Arwen turned, meeting Boromir’s soft, wistful smile with one of her own.

“Are you regretting your promise?” she asked.

“Nay,” he said, fiddling with the straps of his own pack. “’Tis long past time that I returned to my city.”

Boromir stood taller now, returning to his full, true height as one of the nobility of Men, a true Captain-General of the White Tower despite the poor clothes he still insisted on wearing. His talk with Faramir seemed to have done him much good. Arwen knew that the brothers talked long into the night once they had met again, but she had closed her Elven hearing to their conversation so she would not eavesdrop. If there was aught she needed to know, she hoped that they would tell her when the time came. She trusted them enough for that.

Now, she reached out hesitantly, feeling the warm thrum of Boromir’s pulse beneath his fingertips as she took his wrist.

“You will not be alone in your return,” she murmured. “And there will be many awaiting you. The silver trumpets will sing once more to welcome the Lords of Gondor home.”

Lowering his eyes, Boromir took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Arwen shivered at the gesture, for though this was a common courtesy amongst noble Men, there was a look in Boromir’s eyes that took her breath away.

“They will welcome the Lady of Gondor home as well,” he said, voice so quiet that it seemed only Arwen would hear him.

She let her hand fall by her side, taking the bridle and checking the mule’s mouth to ensure that the metal bit was not cruel to it. Boromir came over to her side, taking the reins, and they walked side by side towards the edge of the river. Arwen found her heart strangely heavy, for surely this would be the last in some time before they would find themselves alone once more.

They walked in silence until they reached the soldiers, who were all waiting for them. Arwen swung up as clumsily as she could onto her mule, still mindful of watching eyes, and she watched as Boromir took a horse from his brother’s hands, moving as if he was born on horseback like one of the Rohirrim. She hid a grin, wondering what the village would think if they saw this, and if it only confirmed their suspicions about ‘Dwyte’s’ Rohir blood.

Some of the soldiers would be staying behind for the sake of the new villages and settlements growing at the base of the White Mountains. Peace was still new and weak, and even if there were no orcs, there was still the danger of raiders and bandits; of Men used to war and battle but who were less kindly than Beranor and the other old soldiers. Faramir had told her the previous night that there would be an outpost set up at the opening of Tarlang’s Neck, for the times when these farmers and villagers might be attacked without their Queen and Captain to personally protect them.

Arwen nudged her mule to follow the soldiers, keeping her silence as she watched the village grow smaller and smaller as they headed south of the river Morthond. It was strange to ride away; it seemed only so recently that she had stumbled into the village, her disguise still new and strange on her skin, her tongue heavy when she spoke the name she had given as her own. Now months had passed and she had found a gift she had not expected when she first came, and Arwen wished the village had a name.

It should have one. If it did, she would make a song out of it, though she was clumsy with rhymes, telling of all the plain men and women who birthed themselves out of the ashes of their old lives and faced up with their lifelong terrors with such courage. Perhaps she would write to Merry and Pippin in the Shire, asking if they knew good rhymes for such Men. Her brothers in the south of Eryn Lasgalen would lend her a minstrel, and she knew many of the same in Minas Tirith’s courts would gladly do the bidding of the Queen, but their songs would be too stilted and grand-sounding for such an affair.

Boromir had ridden up to her quietly while she was occupied with her thoughts. He watched her with words hidden beneath his tongue, and Arwen nudged her mule closer, cocking her head to the side.

“Do you fear for the village’s safety?” she asked, searching for a topic that would not give them away to Faramir’s sharp eyes. 

“Nay,” said Boromir, chuckling to himself. “There is naught to worry about: the old soldiers have found plenty of reasons to stay, and they are canny creatures.”

Arwen cocked his head, waiting for him to continue.

“Hallam said,” he leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret, “they recognised me from the moment they had a good look at me. Yet they said nothing for,” he raised his voice to a higher pitch, roughening his accent to impersonate Hallam: “If the Lord Boromir decides to call himself ‘Dwyte’ and pretend to be a farmhand, then who are _we_ to argue?”

He shook his head, looking almost shocked. Arwen pressed her hand hard to her mouth, trying to keep her dignity, for she understood Dagmar’s parting words now, and with insight came mirth. 

“Dagmar knew as well,” she told Boromir, trying to keep her voice steady. “I daresay Hallam spilled the secret while deep in the cups she brought him.”

Boromir blinked, and he threw his head back and laughed, free and loud. Arwen felt her own chuckles dying down as she watched him, for he was beautiful in that moment. The setting sun turned his hair like gold that had just left the forge, and his eyes were brighter than any gems could claim to be. She felt her heart tug deep within her, its threads wounding even tighter around Boromir.

He would heal, she thought. He was already healing, for surely he would not have laughed like this mere weeks ago, when they had first met again.

“We thought ourselves cunning to have deceived them,” he gasped for breath between chortles. “Yet it seems that we are the ones fooled instead.” He glancing at her through the strands of his dishevelled hair, and his smile faded as he caught sight of her solemnness.

“My lady? Is aught the matter?”

Arwen blinked, shaking her head hard. Her hands were trembling, and she hid them by twining her fingers around the mule’s reins.

“Nay,” she murmured. “’Tis no matter.”

Boromir nudged his horse even closer, reaching over the gap to brush his fingers gently over her shoulder.

“There is no danger in their knowing,” he said. “The old soldiers make for good keepers of secrets, especially if Sage and Dagmar are looking after them.”

She barely heard his words, for her eyes seemed fixed upon his lips, watching them curl and uncurl with every syllable. There was an ache deep within her, below her stomach, and she wished for nothing more than to be alone so she might reach over and taste him.

“I…” she trailed off, her mind scrambling for words. “I am not worried, my lord.” She brushed the thoughts away as much as she could, turning her head up to give him a smile.

“Surely ‘twas not only Hallam who spoke? Will you tell me the rest of the tale?”

Boromir gave her a doubtful look, but Arwen held his gaze.

“Aye, my lady,” he said finally, but there was a hidden iron to his tone that told her that he would not let this matter rest.

***

The small company came to a stop at the Stone of Erech, for the sun was setting and though the Dead was cleared from Tarlang’s Neck, it would be pure folly to enter the passage when all was tired from the day’s long ride. Arwen watched as Faramir and Boromir took counsel together once more before she headed towards the little tent erected for her, lighting up a candle.

Once she was settled, she drew Aragorn’s letter from within her sleeves and unfolded it carefully. She had read it many times throughout these few days, but it had not ceased to give her great warmth and comfort.

> _My lady Undómiel,_
> 
> _Autumn approaches once more, bringing with it the chores of the harvest. It has gone well this year and none in Gondor will lack for eating, but I am sure you are more certain of that than me. Has it truly been thirteen moons since you left the Citadel? The days seem unending yet the months are short. The passing of the seasons are lost to me, and more oft than ever I believe I will drown amongst these white walls and papers._
> 
> _Worry not, Arwen. My duties do not warm me at night, but I am long used to your absence. I hope only that during the nights when I reach out towards the empty air that you are too, and under the light of Eärendil’s bright star our hands will meet. Even if I do not feel the warmth of your skin, the thought gives me great comfort._
> 
> _I dawdle with my words, and I am certain you are tired of them. Let me address your short missive._
> 
> _I know you to be free from all guile and cruelty. I know that you do not lie to me, Arwen, yet my heart can scarce believe what I read. If the dove could speak, I would have interrogated her and forced her to tell me all she knows. If Boromir is truly alive, I do not think I will believe it until I see him once more with my own eyes. Do not think I doubt you; I doubt myself. His skin was cold the last I touched him, and it was my hands that sent him down the river in the Elven boat. If he was alive, then I surely—_

Arwen touched the dark splotch of ink on the thick paper, pressing hard against the spot where Aragorn’s neat hand trailed off into a mass of scratched out scribbles. She swallowed her frustration; even _now_ he refused to tell her of Amon Hen.

Shaking her head to herself, she continued reading.

> _There is naught more I wish for than to ride out now. I would take Brego and allow him to fly with all speed westwards until I reach you. Or perhaps I would take Asfaloth – he is restless lately, for it has been long since his mistress has appeared before him. If we ride faster than the winds themselves, then surely I would arrive before the orcs?_
> 
> _Yet I find myself without the ability, for my duties are heavy chains indeed and I cannot shrug them off easily. Faramir will go in my stead. I know he will wish to be the first to look upon his brother, and though I trust your eyes, my love, I believe he will wish to see Boromir with his own._
> 
> _A small company of soldiers will follow him. If it is truly Boromir whom you have found, then I believe those swords will be needed for immediate defence. However, I have read your words between the lines, my lady, and Faramir will be given orders to set up an outpost near the base of the White Mountains in the north. Aye, you were right: the westlands have been too long neglected, and there is much to be done._
> 
> _Though my heart aches to feel your absence by my side, I know Gondor will profit from your travels._
> 
> _Yours,  
>  Estel_

“So it is the lot of those who rule,” murmured Arwen to herself. “Duty reigns above all, for the King serves the pleasure of his people, and not his own.”

“My lady?”

Arwen nearly jumped. Elven hearing she might have, but she was far too occupied with her thoughts and Aragorn’s words that she had heard nothing. Her fingers had folded the letter and hid it without her knowledge, and she chuckled softly to herself as she placed it on her lap, raising her eyes to meet Boromir’s.

“’Tis late, my lord,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “Is anything the matter?”

“Nothing urgent,” replied Boromir, looking down. “If you are busy…”

Standing, Arwen walked over to him, taking his fidgeting hands into her own. They were warm and callused, the hard skin made by the handling of a sword made even rougher by farm work.

“I was simply reading, and it can be done at any time.” Motioning to the letter, she said, “’Tis a letter from Aragorn. Would you like to read it?”

“I…” he bit his lip. “Nay, though what I have to say will have much to do with the King.”

Why did Boromir avoid saying Aragorn’s name? Why did he seem to flinch at the sound of it? Arwen did not know, but she hid her curiosity, leading him towards the small chair in her tent. She perched herself on the desk. The company had packed lightly for the journey, and she would rather not waste the time that could be spent talking in finding another chair.

“My ear is yours, my lord,” she said gently.

Boromir rubbed at his nose and mouth, a gesture that was now familiar to her. He opened his mouth, but fell into a long silence. Arwen felt impatience crawl along her spine, but she tampered it down, refusing to rush him. He would tell her all that he needed to, in his own time. Dawn was still far off.

She took in the sound of his heartbeat, drumming hard in his chest, and his forcibly stabilised breathing. Yet it was only a few moments that had passed before his lips parted once more.

“I suppose it began… well, it was during the Council in Imladris,” he said, taking a deep breath. “’Twas then that the Ring called to me.”

So the tale of the breaking of the Fellowship finally came to the ears of Arwen Undómiel from the tongue of Boromir of Gondor. It came halting and hesitant at first; then the words poured out of him like a waterfall, as if they had long hid underneath his tongue awaiting their escape. His knuckles were white during the telling, and often he choked on his own breath before carrying on, and Arwen had to still her own hands so she would not reach out for him.

He told her of the fears he confessed to the Man who would be King in the lands of the Lady of Light, her grandmother, and the quarrel they had on the river bank. He shivered as if the night had turned into winter when he told her how he succumbed, when the sweet songs of the Ring turned impossible to ignore, and how he attacked the Ringbearer.

Boromir shook more than the candle’s flame in the gentle wind, and it was then that Arwen drew him into her arms. She wished to shush him, to let the tale continue another day, but his words came like the rushing Rauros falls, wearing away at the stone of his long silence. Akin to the sun breaking through the clouds it was, he said, as he told her how his heart had cried in joy at the sight of Aragorn bursting through the trees; how the arrows embedded in his flesh gave him no pain in that moment for he looked upon Aragorn and he knew that the King long-awaited had truly returned.

“He told me I had kept my honour, and though I named him King then, I still cannot believe his words,” whispered Boromir, closing his eyes and laying his head upon her shoulder. “In truth, I am naught but a disobedient soldier, for I have refused the words of my King into my heart. I know I should, yet…”

Leaning back slightly, Arwen cupped his face gently with her hands. She closed her eyes and pressed the softest of kisses upon his lips. Boromir froze, tensing against her for a long moment before he sighed, falling forward, his lips moulding to hers. Their breaths mingled, and Arwen drew Boromir’s warmth into her own lungs before she pulled away.

She pressed two fingers gently on his mouth, stopping any further words. “’Twas a kiss for comfort, my lord, and a promise. Let us not speak more of it for now.”

Taking in his faint nod, Arwen pulled away, staring at her hands. When she was sure that she had the words, she spoke, “My father thought ‘twas Isildur’s weakness that led to his fall to the Ring’s powers, and though he is wise in many things, in this I believe he is blinded still by his grief at the loss of his comrade. Nay, Boromir; Isildur fell to his bane because of his nobility and his love for his land and his people.

“The Ring is a terrible weapon: it preys not only on the shadows within our hearts, but the light as well. Wisdom is turned to greed, courage to fear, and nobility to desperation.” 

Arwen shuddered, remembering the terrifying moments on the banks of the Ford Bruinen before Glorfindel found them: when she held the Ringbearer in her arms and felt the burning heat of the Ring pressed against her own chest. She reached out and tangled their hands together, holding Boromir’s dulled gaze with her own.

“I have heard its voice as well, and ‘twas strength that allowed you to withstands its luring.” She squeezed his fingers, weaving as much steel into her voice as she could. “You are not weak.”

“Strength I might have owned once, but I gave up all that is decent within myself when I attacked Frodo,” said Boromir, swallowing hard. “I do not know how you stand to look at me, my lady, knowing what I have done.”

“A Man without decency would not have protected the Hobbits,” she said fiercely. “Guilt will not threaten to swallow him whole like it does you. A Man without decency would not have protected the village.”

She slid her fingers into Boromir’s hair, tilting his head up so he could not avert his gaze. She knew her grip was too tight, was Elven-strong, but she could not help herself.

“I know my words might ring empty in your heart, Boromir of Gondor, but _do_ _not_ try to convince me of your unworthiness again. Let me be my own judge; let all those who love you judge you themselves.”

“What if they don’t forgive me?” asked Boromir, and the shivering uncertainty in his voice had Arwen leaning forward, touching their foreheads together.

“If they do not forgive you, then ‘tis only because they did not blame you in the first place.”

She saw his doubts in his eyes, and knew that he did not believe in her words. The wounds were still raw after the war, and there had been little time for healing for this Man. Mere words would not close these lacerations of the heart.

Arwen had patience bred from a thousand eight hundred of living, and nearly forty years spent in waiting for Aragorn to claim his place. She knew she would wait for him; wait until his heart was calm, and he could look at himself reflected in her eyes without flinching.

Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Perhaps ‘tis not my right, but you have long held my forgiveness.”

Boromir made a rasping gasp, like a man who reached shore right before he drowned, and he crashed their lips together. It was an inelegant kiss, their teeth smacking against each other, their skin almost cut by the force. Yet it was still sweet, still warmed her heart and stilled the shaking of his hands upon her shoulders.

For now, for the two of them, it was enough.


	5. Part V

**Part V**

Pressing Asfaloth’s back tight between her thighs, Arwen urged the stallion forward, chasing the white spire that wound up as if reaching towards the skies. It had taken over a week of hard riding, but at last they were returned to the White City. 

Glancing sideways, she caught Boromir’s gaze and smiled. His eyes were wide as he stared at the Tower of Ecthelion, and she wondered if he realised that it now gleamed more brilliantly than it had done in his time. During her time as the guardian of the Citadel, before she embarked on her quest, Arwen had ensured that the limestone was wiped clean and polished smooth, and the pockmarks of constant war was erased to make way for the incoming Fourth Age.

“She is magnificent, isn’t she?” she said.

“That she is indeed, my lady,” replied Boromir. He had ridden closer to her as she thought, and now he was shielding his eyes. “Glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze,” he whispered to himself, as if repeating words he had said long ago.

“’Twill be better for you to be hooded, my lord,” she said quietly, loathing to break the spell the sight of his beloved home had cast upon him. Yet it was necessary, for neither of them would have the guards raise uproar.

Gondor’s people would see her champion in time; but her King would have the first glance. Their escort had already been sworn to silence.

Boromir tugged the hood to hide his face, the movement just in time as they drew close to the gates. Above them, bright than the Sun herself, came the clear, clarion call of the silver trumpets. The sound shivered in the air, winding its way into Arwen’s spine, and she tipped her head up towards the top of the parapet, giving the guards a smile.

The Steward of Gondor came forward next to her, and his brother fell back, melding with their escorting soldiers as one of them. Arwen kept her ear on Boromir even as she smiled at those who came out of their houses to greet her with bended knee. She slowed Asfaloth’s pace further, bending over her horse to reach out towards her people. They had not seen her for over a year ever since she rode out to Lossarnach, and Arwen would not deny them the chance to look upon or even speak to their Queen.

Though there was naught she wished for than to gallop up to the Citadel to greet Elessar King, duty came first for all of them – as always.

*

Faramir had left with the soldiers with little more than a murmur at the sixth level, for he knew that the Queen wished to bring the lost Captain home to the King herself. He took the horses with him; Arwen and Boromir were left to climb the last gates towards the Citadel alone.

She heard Boromir’s breath stutter at the sight of the White Tree. Nimloth was magnificent even in autumn, her white blooms shining like gems in the bright sunlight just past noon. Arwen stood back, watching as Boromir stumbled forward and took a single blossom between his gentle hands.

“There was naught more my grandfather wished for than to see the wilted Tree bloom once more,” he breathed, stroking the petals with great reverence. “I had never thought I would see it bloom again, or see the banner of the King high above the towers of the Citadel.”

“The White Tree was kept safe throughout the long centuries by the efforts of the Steward.”

The voice was one much loved and missed, and Arwen spun around immediately. Aragorn stood at the doorway of the Tower of Ecthelion, dressed simply in dark leather breeches and a white shirt. Upon his brow laid the Elendilmir, shining like a star, and upon his breast was the Elfstone from which he took his name.

Arwen lowered her head, and she could not help but think of the first time her feet had treaded these white stones. Aragorn was newly-crowned then, his song still ringing in the air. Now his fingers were gentle and sword-callused upon her jaw, and Arwen lifted her eyes and smiled.

“I have come home, Elessar King,” she murmured.

Taking her hand in his, Aragorn’s eyes fixed upon hers, pressing a soft kiss on her knuckles. “I welcome you home, my Queen,” he breathed.

Her eyes flickered towards the hooded figure who seemed to wish to meld into the bare shadows cast by the White Tree. She clasped Aragorn’s hand in her own, and together they reached out towards Boromir.

“I have brought you one whom all of Gondor loves,” she said. “Will you not remove your hood, Captain?”

Boromir’s sharp intake of breath was loud for all to hear, but his fingers were steady on the edges of the cloth. He threw the hood backwards, and Arwen felt Aragorn’s fingers tight upon her wrist. If she was a human woman, she would be bruised, but Arwen minded it not.

Slowly, Boromir came forward. He fell onto one knee, his fist pressed to his breast.

“I come before you, my lord, a nameless Man. I have brought no sword with me, for ‘twas lost at sea,” he said, voice hoarse. “There is naught I own but my heart, my soul, and my body, and all these I give to you, my lord, for the service of Gondor.”

“Only for the sake of Gondor?” Aragorn’s voice might seem steady to all, but Arwen heard the tremor in it.

“Nay, my lord,” Boromir whispered. “’Tis for your sake as well.”

He tipped his head up, and the clash of the men’s gazes sent lightning down to the very tips of Arwen’s fingers.

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut. Stepping back, he drew Anduril from its usual place by his hip. The tip of the Flame of the West touched the stone floor, right between Boromir’s knees.

“Rise, Boromir of Gondor,” said Elessar King, his voice ringing through the Citadel. “Rise, and take your long-awaited place by my side.”

Boromir stood. They stepped forward as one, so close that their lashes seemed to brush each other’s cheeks, and their breaths touched like their lips did not dare to.

Arwen’s heart stuttered in her chest. _I have dishonoured you_ , Boromir said once, and she thought that she could finally understand those words. She hoped no guards had turned their eyes to the King and his Captain: there were none who would miss the shine in both eyes; deeper and sweeter than tears.

She cleared her throat, swallowing her laughter as they jumped apart. There was shock and guilt in the air, and she knew then that they had forgotten her presence. 

Aragorn came towards her, taking her hand once more. The caress of his fingers across hers was an apology, but Arwen brought it up and pressed a quick, sudden kiss upon the tips.

“There is much you both must talk about, my lords.” She could not keep the teasing smile from her lips. “Though I do not think the courtyard should be the place.”

“My lady,” Boromir began, but Arwen shook her head almost immediately. She wished she could reach out and press her fingers to his lips, but there were eyes even in the Citadel. Though she trusted the Guards, she would not risk any possible tarnish upon Boromir’s honour. Not while his eyes still perceived rust crawling over the surface that gleamed so brightly to her.

“I must seek counsel with the House Steward, my lords,” she said, deliberately lowering her eyes and giving them both a small curtsey. “I must know how the Citadel has fared in my absence. I suggest, my lord, that your discussion will be best suited to your study. None will disturb you.”

The King’s gaze was heavy on her, thoughtful and surprised. She gave him a fleeting smile from beneath her lashes, hearing his heart rate pick up. Warmth began to sneak its fingers up her neck, and Arwen was thankful for the shield of her hair as she turned away and stepped into the Tower.

They were beautiful, her King and his Captain. One of them was hers in the eyes of the law, and perhaps she was greedier than Men, for she wished to twine her heartstrings around the other also.

In fact, she realised wryly, her heart had already done so without her permission.

***

Long white arms reached upwards as Arwen stretched, her dark hair falling all over her face. Beside her, Aragorn smiled, his fingers gentle as he brushed the strands away, thumb stroking over her cheekbone. Their pants ghosted across each other’s skins, creating mists as they smiled the secret smiles of lovers who found each other once more after long months of parting.

Arwen turned over, letting out her breath in a soft _oof_ as she leaned over Aragorn, her hair falling over them like a blanket of shadow. Aragorn laughed as they kissed, his familiar, callused hands stroking over her shoulder, and Arwen could not help but think of Boromir’s hands. So similar, yet so different; how would it feel on her bare skin?

How would it feel to watch her Captain and her King touch each other and glory in the sweetness she found in the moments when their eyes met?

But those questions she kept deep within her heart, refusing them access to her eyes.

“I have missed you, my Queen,” Aragorn murmured, jerking her out of her thoughts. His rough lips caressed her temple, right at the edge of her hairline, and Arwen gave a breathless laugh at the ticklish touch.

“Aye,” she replied. “And so have I you, my King.”

They looked at each other. Long years allowed them to read each other’s eyes easily, and Aragorn stood from the bed, still gloriously naked, and went to the small desk at the corner of the room. He took a sheaf of thick parchment, quill, and ink before he dropped back onto the bed.

“Has your memory faded so that there is need to take down all you said?” Arwen teased, her fingertips brushing against his ear, right below the small hints of grey that was appearing. She had chosen a mortal life, and yet even now, she still found herself taken by surprise at how quickly the seasons and years passed; how time seemed like clear spring water slipping from her hands the harder she tried to grasp it tight.

Aragorn poked her nose with the feathery end of the quill. “Perhaps. Or I simply wish to have it all writ, so I might tell our people what our Queen has done for them.”

Arwen shook her head, sitting back against the large pillows. “I would rather they benefit than for any fame,” she said. “’Twas no hardship to wander amongst Men, Estel. There was so much that I learned.”

The quill’s tip poised atop the parchment, Aragorn waited as she attempted to find the words.

“They are afraid, and their courage and honour seem even greater in their fears. They are said to be naught but plain Men, common Men, and they think themselves so as well. Yet how can I think of them this way? I went to a village without a name, where almost all had lost their homes to orc raids, and they rightfully feared the servants of the Dark Lord. I served a landlord of an inn, who refused to fight when he knew the orcs were coming, but when they attacked the village’s centre, he raised a pitchfork and fought them off still.

“I knew women who, by the unfairness of their stations, were not given a chance to learn the way of the sword or the bow. Yet they wished to learn, for danger strengthened their hearts, and a group of them with a single day of training fought off an orc with much greater strength than they. They told me they fought, my lord, for the simplest reasons – for they wished to survive. They judge themselves too ill, for I see it in their eyes: each of them has a warrior’s spirit, for they fought to protect – their homes, each other, themselves, it mattered little which.”

Arwen took a deep, shuddering breath, looking down to stare at her hands, tangled amongst the blankets. “From Lossarnach to Lamedon to Erech I have travelled, and for a year I have lived amongst them. I have met no raiders, Aragorn, despite your warnings. There are soldiers who mourn the end of the war, aye, but ‘twas not for the sake of battle, but for a place where they belong, a purpose for which they can tie their lives.”

“Boromir told me of the old soldiers as well,” murmured Aragorn. “What do you suggest?” 

His quill had remained still while she spoke, and there was a large drop of ink on the creamy parchment. Arwen reached over and rubbed the spot, staring at the darkness that gathered on her pale skin.

“There must be outposts, my lord,” she said. “Not merely for the sake of the villagers, who certainly need protection, but for the lost souls, the soldiers who have fought their whole lives and now found themselves bereft of a war. Certainly, the orcs have been vanquished, but perhaps we have dismantled the army far too soon. Call back all those left adrift, and send them to where they are needed.”

She smiled gently. “We will need them still – the Corsairs and Haradrim still pose as potential threats, and we will need to reclaim Arnor in the North before long years have passed.”

Aragorn took her hand, pressing a soft kiss on her fingertips. “Aye, we do,” he said. “I wish so badly for the wars to have ended, my love, and I did not see. The skies over Mordor are clear now, but there are still shadows that lurk.”

“Seven stars there are on the banner of the King, but he is in truth richer than he knows,” said Arwen, taking her beloved hand in hers as she stroked the rough knuckles, leaving tiny ink spots to match the ones on Aragorn’s wrists. He had, as always, forgotten to wipe his hands clean before bed. 

“Within each Man he rules is a star, and by the will of the King can they be made to shine.” She took a deep breath, lifting her head to look into the eyes of the King of Gondor. “Will you allow the women to bear arms if there is need, my lord? Will you give them the strength of the body to match that of their spirits?”

“You know I will allow it.” Aragorn leaned back against the pillows, rubbing at his nose with a hand, streaking ink across the surface. “’Tis true strange: in Gondor, there seems naught women can do but war, ruling, and landowning. Where is the Tar-Ancalimë amongst the line of Kings after the Last Alliance? Was Arvedui my forefather refused due to his arrogance, or Gondor’s refusal of Fíriel’s claim to the throne?”

Arwen raised his shoulders in a gentle shrug, her fingers rubbing Aragorn’s face clean of ink with a corner of the blankets. “I lived during that time, yet news of Gondor was of little concern to me,” she said, finding herself strangely apologetic. Such long years wasted! Yet how could she have known in her youth that it was Aragorn who would capture her heart?

She shook her head, focusing once more. “Though it seems of little use to ponder over the past, my lord, when ‘tis the present that needs to be changed. Allow women the right to own property. Mothers already pass their trades down to daughters; why not the homes their skills have won them?”

“’’Twill be a difficult law to pass in these times of peace,” said Aragorn wryly. “Yet it is a righteous law, and we are in a new Age.”

Humming in agreement, Arwen took the writing materials from Aragorn’s hands, dropping them carelessly over the side of the bed. The ink did not spill, and Arwen noticed with amusement that Aragorn seemed to not notice that his hands were now empty. She pushed herself up to her knees, leaning forward until her lips grazed the round curve of Aragorn’s ear.

“There is one other matter, my lord,” she whispered. Her hand stroked down her beloved’s chest, and she knew the very moment when his thoughts turned away from sombre policy.

“Boromir.”

Aragorn jerked, his lips parting, but Arwen sealed his lips shut with her fingers before he could even utter a single word.

“If ‘tis an apology upon your lips, Estel, then I beg of you to swallow it.” She let her hand fall back to her side.

“I do not understand your meaning, Arwen,” blurted Aragorn immediately.

Arwen laughed gently. She nudged at Aragorn’s shoulders, pushing him down onto the bed until she laid over him, her hair creating a curtain around them, shielding their faces from all else in the world. Aragorn’s grey eyes were bright in this sudden darkness, his mouth wet and shining, and Arwen could not help but press gentle kisses to his lids and lips.

“He is beautiful, my lord,” she said into his ear. “Beautiful, brave, and strong he is, with a true warrior’s heart that beats beneath his breast. His honour is beyond doubt, no matter how much he tries to deny it himself. Like the moon draws the sea I find myself stumbling towards him, all my limbs clumsy.”

Her thumb traced a line from Aragorn’s cheek down to his lips, and she smiled. “And he loves you with every inch of his being. His heart lies within your hands, just as yours lies within his.”

“I have not betrayed you,” gasped Aragorn, his eyes wild, uncomprehending, and Arwen tossed her head back and laughed, bright and sparkling.

“He smells of the summer sun upon newborn grass, my lord, and he tastes of the first burst of harvest fruits on the tongue.”

Aragorn stared at her. Then he surged upwards, his hands sliding into her hair, crashing their lips together in a rough kiss. His tongue darted into her mouth, sliding over every surface as he threw her down onto the bed, pressing his entire weight on her as he took her mouth with a passion and roughness stronger than even the beginning of this night. She laughed, her heart light, hooking her leg over his waist, thrusting up against him as his hands slid down her sides, curved around her breasts. His teeth nipped at the sensitive tip of her ear, wringing a moan from her.

He groaned her name, thrusting his hips against her thigh, and Arwen tipped his head back before she kissed him again. She felt it as he stilled, tension creeping into his spine, and she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“I…” he swallowed how. “You gave up your immortality and the rest of your kin for my sake, Arwen. I do not understand how you do not fault me for the splitting of my heart.”

Arwen laughed again. “My love,” she breathed, kissing his eyes, his nose, his lips. “Oh, my sweet love.”

Cupping Aragorn’s jaw with her hands, she smiled. “I did not bring him to Minas Tirith for his sake alone, my lord – ‘twas for mine. _My_ heart is split in twain as well, but,” she placed two fingers on his lips when he looked to interrupt her, “even if it is not, I would not stand between the Captain and his King. I refuse to have you stay faithful for the sake of guilt, for that is an ugly thing to taint our love.”

Her thumb brushed the side of his eyes, against the lines she found there, carved by the ravages of time. “You look upon me with the same eyes I saw on the hill of Cerin Amroth,” she said gently. “I know your affections have not changed – only grew to include another.”

“What have I done in my life to receive such wealth?” whispered Aragorn, his fingers as reverent on her as the first time she looked upon him and found her heart tied to his. “I have received such fortune, my love, and I seem to deserve little of it.”

“To think such is foolish, my love,” she replied. “The heart that gives love judges the one loved worthy, and that is naught that needs to be considered. Besides,” she gave him a teasing smile. “You have chosen well. There is none who can look upon Boromir of Gondor without admiration or love.”

Aragorn stilled. His hand traced over her lips. “He said the same of you,” he said quietly.

Arwen cocked her head, waiting.

“More beautiful than the first day of spring, and kinder than the touch of skin after days of rough wool she is. I found my heart drawn towards her, metal towards lodestone, and I berate myself for all those days I spent thinking her unworthy to be Gondor’s Queen,” quoted Aragorn. His fingers stroked over her cheek.

“What happened between you both?”

Smiling, Arwen arched up and pressed a kiss onto Aragorn’s lips. “I will tell you the tale, my love, but only in exchange for one of your own. Tell me of the journey of the Fellowship. Tell me of Amon Hen.”

She heard Aragorn’s sharp intake of breath like the breaking of a twig during a dark, silent night. Her hands stroked over his side gently, and she did not urge him. When he finally spoke, she began her tale. She told him for the first moment when she recognised Boromir through the unkempt beard and rough clothing, his honour shining through clear for anyone with sharp enough eyes to see. She told him of their fight against the mountain troll together, of how Boromir had held her afterwards and allowed her to find temporary respite in his arms.

When she was done, she laid on the bed, Aragorn’s head on her breast. She felt the slow, stuttering breaths he took, and knew he was wondering how to respond. But when he did, he spun the tale of how he met Boromir the first time, in the halls of her father in front of the Shards of Narsil. He told her, too, of how Boromir had won his heart during their journey together, and showed her that Men might be weak, but there was courage and honour aplenty to be found within their spirits.

“We fought on the banks of Anduin,” he murmured. “I was consumed by uncertainty, and my words were harsh. I refused to go to Gondor, for I feared that in the lands of Meneldil I would be tempted to take the Ring for my own. ‘There is courage also, and honour to be found in Men,’ he told me.”

Arwen started slightly, understanding in this moment Boromir’s shock when she had told him those precise words. Aragorn did not notice, however, immersed as he was in his memories.

“In the morn…” he continued with a shaking voice, and Arwen’s slow stroking of his hair seemed to not alleviate his guilt any.

“I sent him down the river to his doom,” he whispered finally, turning to bury his face in her neck. Hot tears littered her skin, and Arwen kissed his temple gently. “A healer I pretend I am, yet I thought him dead and gave him to the Rauros falls. If he had died then…” he shuddered hard.

“Surely you have told him this,” murmured Arwen, trying to calm him down.

“He does not remember me putting him in the ship,” said Aragorn. “And he will not tell me how he survived the arrows.” He took a loud, shuddering breath. “Though he tells me that he lays no blame upon my shoulders.”

“What need have you to carry the burden of guilt, my lord, if the one you believe you have wronged blame you not?” she asked, tilting Aragorn’s head up to face her. “I find this a strange habit of Men: to carry guilt upon their shoulders when there none lays such a heavy burden upon them.”

Aragorn laughed, a mirthless sound. “Perhaps ‘tis but the foolishness of Men, my love,” he said, his fingers stroking over her cheek. “Boromir still blames himself for succumbing to the Ring.”

“Aye,” she said quietly. “I am certain he had his will, he would have hidden from us for the rest of his lifetime.”

They fell into silence for a long moment, joined in thought by the Man they were both hapless to not love.

“Do you truly believe Frodo will give him that?”

“I do not know Boromir’s heart as well as I should.” Aragorn frowned. “Yet I believe that if neither of us can give him what he so needs, ‘tis Frodo who can.”

“Yet I wonder if he will be willing to go.”

“I do not know,” he said, sounding thoughtful. “If he does, he must move quickly. Merry’s letters worry me; I believe that Frodo might take the ships with,” he hesitated, “with your father.”

How strange it was that the thought of her father leaving for Valinor – sundered forever from her – still hurt! The choice she made was not one she would ever change, yet she knew that she would miss Elrond for as long as she still lived; that she would still look northwards towards Imladris, thinking of its lush valleys and beautiful waterfalls and the halls she had lived in for nigh two thousand years. Her memories of her homeland had not faded, yet Arwen something found herself grieving that she did not know what the Last Homely House looked like now, when the power of Vilya was gone with the Shadow.

“He has my place upon the White Ships,” she said finally, forcing her thoughts away from dark sorrows. If there was naught she had learned from living amongst Men, it was this: to dwell upon the griefs of the past was a foolish thing, especially when joy had spread its path out in front of her.

“Perhaps the Valar have finally forgiven the Men of Númenor for their faithlessness,” murmured Aragorn, his eyes solemn as he looked at her. “For it seems that you have found Boromir just in time, my lady – any later, and perhaps he would never find the forgiveness he so wishes for.”

“If not, then…” Arwen trailed off, unwilling to linger long upon that thought. That way laid darkness. “If not, we will have to convince him to find forgiveness within himself,” she said firmly instead. “Surely ‘tis his own heart that allows Amon Hen to haunt him so.”

Aragorn made a soft noise in assent. He leaned in, his lips grazing Arwen’s jaw. They turned towards each other at the same instant, lips parting to kiss. The words fell away, for they knew that at this moment there was no need for them. What needed to be said had been spoken.

Her hands splayed out above his chest as she shifted on top of him. They looked at each other, smiling slightly before they kissed again, slow and gentle, their hearts beating steadily in time to every indrawn breath from each other’s mouths. The air stuttered, shivered between them, soft moans ringing out as Arwen lowered herself onto her husband’s length, taking him within her heat. Aragorn’s teeth grazed her throat, over and over, too gentle to mark, just sharp enough to make her heart skip a beat.

At their sides, their fingers twined together, reaching out for someone whom they both wished for.

***

Once, Arwen had thought the gardens of Minas Tirith would be dull, faded things, the leaves more yellow than green, for surely no plants could flourish so close to Mordor and amongst so much stone? Yet she found herself pleasantly surprised, for she was wrong: the Citadel’s gardens boasted of rich-coloured blossoms and leaves as green as any of the plants in Imladris. When she asked the House Steward, he told her that the soil was transported from the banks of the Anduin or the plains of Lamedon every decade or so.

Minas Tirith was, after all, a fortress, and all within would need a supply of food to eat.

Yet it was not in the harvest homes that Arwen headed towards on the second morning of her return. No, she went to the small garden at the back of what used to be the residence of those of the Steward’s line. The House was abandoned now, for Faramir lived more often than not in Ithlien, and his days in the Minas Tirith were spent amongst the King’s plentiful apartments. Arwen knew his reasons: the Steward’s House contained too many painful memories of his father and brother. Yet she came here nonetheless, because she knew this was where Boromir would be.

She had only knelt to caress the fragile leaves of the _alfirin_ when she heard his voice.

“My mother used to come here whenever she could, for it faced south, towards Dol Amroth,” he said quietly. “After her death, it was abandoned, the weeds growing rampant. I had not thought I would see it tended once more.”

Boromir stood at the doorway. He had shaved since she had seen him last, and his beard was now well-trimmed. His clothes were still plain, though he allowed them to be better made. She was unsurprised – the Citadel had been sworn to secrecy, and Gondor was unaware still of the return of their Captain-General. 

“My lady.” He gave her a bow once their eyes met. He stepped forward, taking her hand and pressing a soft kiss upon the back.

“My lord,” returned Arwen. “Will you sit and speak with me?”

Nodding, Boromir led her to one of the small stone benches at the side of the gardens, and they sat there in silence while Arwen waited for him to begin.

“Will you tell me of my Father’s death?”

Arwen looked at him for a long moment before she placed her hand on his. “No,” she told him gently. “’Tis what you must ask Faramir.”

“My brother will not tell me. I have heard so much… ‘tis said that he went mad after my death,” Boromir said, and Arwen grieved to see another ghost added to haunt his heart.

“You cannot place upon your own shoulders the fate of all Men around you, my lord,” she said. “No matter your station or the love you hold for each other, your father’s actions and mind are wholly his own.”

“Surely if I have returned earlier, the Shadow would not have consumed him.” He shook his head. “Surely if I had done more…”

Placing her fingers on his jaw, Arwen nigh forced him to face her. “Even the Wise cannot see all that come to pass,” she said. “’Twas the Lord Denethor who sent you on your Quest; do you fault him for your travails?”

Boromir’s eyes widened. “No, ‘twas my own failing—”

She interrupted him before he could continue further down that route of continuous self-blame. “If the father cannot claim control over his son, what more the son over his father?”`

There was a long silence, before Boromir sighed. “Your words make strong sense, my lady, but my heart refuses to be moved by them.” He ducked his head, hiding his eyes. “Forgive me.”

“In truth, my lord, ‘tis not _my_ forgiveness that you seek,” she told him, voice soft.

“What forgiveness might I find?” asked Boromir, and the bitterness in his voice was thicker than the fog on marshes. “A dead Man gives no such thing.”

“The Ringbearer still lives, my lord.”

“Do you believe Frodo will forgive me?” Boromir’s eyes pleaded with her, his voice rough and low in his throat. “I have done such great wrong by him.”

“Will you deny the chance of receiving forgiveness, my lord, for the fear of receiving anger?” Arwen held Boromir’s gaze, refusing to let him turn from her. She regretted the harshness of her words, but it seemed that Gondor’s lost Captain needed razor sharpness rather than velvet gentleness. “Have you become such a coward?”

Boromir’s eyes flashed: the first sign of fire Arwen has seen since the battle with the mountain troll. His lips thinned in a line, and he shook his head, hard.

“I know what you wish from me, my lady,” he said quietly. “And I applaud your methods.” He hesitated. “Will Gondor wait for my return from the Shire?”

Arwen laughed, standing up.

“Gondor has waited for the return of her Captain-General for long years now, and she has not forgotten. What are a few months more?” Smiling, she leaned in, brushing her lips over his brow. “She will wait, my lord, with her King and Queen alongside her.”

*

In mid-autumn came Merry’s letter, expressing his joy at Boromir’s return and urging his old friend to visit. _The Brandy Hall is open to you always_ , he wrote, _as is Tuckborough and Bag-End_. There was a strange urgency in his words, and Aragorn noted quietly to his wife that perhaps Merry’s sharp eyes had noted Frodo’s wish to leave, and did not wish for Boromir to miss him.

So Boromir of Gondor went north as the first winter winds blew through Minas Tirith. Faramir urged him to wait for spring before undertaking such an arduous journey, wishing more time with his brother, but Boromir denied him gently. He chafed at his current confinement, and wanted naught more than to return in spring, a season of new beginnings suitable for his new life in full sight of the people he so loved.

The King, Queen and Steward watched him go from the Citadel. Arwen stayed at the edge of the courtyard with pale blossoms of the White Tree in her shadowy hair until his small figure had passed out of her Elven sight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part VI**

“He intends to leave for the Undying Lands,” said Boromir.

He sat in the sitting room of the Queen’s Bower. Outside, beyond the heavy curtains, the spring rains broke the silence of the Citadel. The winter snows had all but melted, and the New Year had come but days ago, heralded by fresh new shoots and buds peeping through the wet, muddied ground. 

And Boromir of Gondor had come home.

“This I have suspected,” murmured Aragorn. “His wound from the Witch-king has never fully healed.”

“Aye,” agreed Boromir. “They haunt him still.” He hesitated, and continued, “The Ring does as well, though he tells me that he finds great comfort amongst friends and neighbours, and in the peace of the Shire.”

“Perhaps he will take my place upon the White Ships after all,” said Arwen, looking down at the embroidery which she had used to busy her hands with. “My father and grandmother will seek refuge in the West soon.”

Both Men’s eyes turned towards her. Aragorn’s gaze was darkened, turning haunted, and she shook her head. She would not reassure him that she did not regret her choice in the least – he should know it already. 

Instead, she placed aside cloth, needle and thread, standing and walking over to the windowsill where Boromir had seated himself. Reaching out, her fingers caressed his cheek gently, rubbing her thumb over the edge of his jaw.

“What of you, Boromir of Gondor?” she asked. Aragorn’s eyes were like fire on her skin. “Have you found your peace in the Shire as well?”

Boromir shuddered, tilting his head towards her touch. “Aye, my lady.” His breath trembled against her hand. “There is peace within my heart, but for…”

His eyes were hidden beneath heavy lids, but Arwen knew the words he could not voice by the way he leaned towards her, as if trying to urge her touch to enfold his entire body. She found herself dizzied, all of a sudden, as he licked his lips.

Aragorn came forward, his footsteps Elven-silent upon the carpeted ground. He took Boromir’s hands into his own, pressing soft kisses upon the knuckles, one by one. Arwen’s breath caught in her throat when she saw the gazes exchanged between the two men, hotter than any flames.

“My lord,” Boromir whispered. “You have held my heart since Amon Hen.” He looked up at the both of them, smiling. “Though ‘tis a poor thing, and one you have to share with-”

Arwen caught his lips, swallowing his words before he could voice them.

The King and Queen drew their Captain-General to his feet together, skin touching skin, Boromir like a conduit between them as they led him to the royal bedchambers, a hallway down from the Queen’s Bower. The night was full-dark and the Citadel Guards had been long dismissed, but it was Aragorn’s hand on the small of Boromir’s back that steadied his feet.

So Aragorn took the lead and Arwen followed, turning around to place the heavy bolt upon the door of the bedroom once they had all stumbled within. She watched through the veil of her hair the way her husband and his Captain looked at each other, and smiled before she padded to the corner of the bedroom, folding herself into the plush armchair.

She had asked Aragorn if he wanted to have his first time with Boromir alone. He had loved him first, and she had so much time with Boromir that he did not – yet Aragorn refused, looking at her with earnest eyes, telling her that he wished for her to be there. Arwen wondered how her King looked upon the two of them, and she thought perhaps they were like a mountain: the two Men holding the base, joined together, while they held her up in a pedestal at the very summit.

It took her some effort to calm down, to still her hands and feet so she would not reach out for them. She released all thoughts of herself and her own pleasure – there would be time aplenty for such things soon – for her King and his Captain deserved this time to themselves despite all of Aragorn’s politeness.

Leaning back against the soft cushions of the chair, Arwen crossed her legs as she watched Aragorn draw Boromir gently, slowly into a kiss. Boromir’s eyes darted towards her, but she did not meet his gaze, and eventually he sighed, leaning into Aragorn. His hand was golden against Aragorn’s neck, darker than the King’s skin for Boromir had spent long years working the fields while Aragorn had been cooped up in sheltered rooms for the sake of his duties.

The beauty of their movements was undeniable: the arch of Boromir’s throat as Aragorn’s teeth moved down the strong column, making dark marks that would be barely covered by his clothing; the trembling of his fingers as he reached out to his King, clasping onto a hip before dragging him onto the bed; the smiles they exchanged as they landed, their breaths already short, panting against each other as they kissed again, sliding their mouths against each other.

Arwen watched as they undressed, seeming to have completely forgotten her presence. They touched each other reverently, so gently that she thought that they were afraid that the other would disappear like mist if they pressed too hard. Boromir sighed softly as Aragorn drew his tunic and undershirt over his head, and Aragorn bit down on a shoulder as he unlaced Boromir’s breeches, pulling back and tossing the worn leather over the side of the bed. His teeth caught onto the knot of Boromir’s smallclothes, tugging them loose and sliding the pale white cotton across Boromir’s thighs before he pushed them away.

For the first time, Boromir was bared to her eyes, and Arwen trembled at the way her own blood heated. Elves took a far longer time to reach their peak, but Arwen had waited for long seasons, and now she found herself impatient. Yet she could still find some control over herself, taking a long shuddering breath as Boromir tossed his head back, scattering strands of gold all over his face.

Her fingers twitched on the arm of the chair, wanting so terribly to reach out, to walk over to brush his hair away so she could look into his eyes as the darkness of arousal took him.

Boromir’s hands were unsteady as he tugged at Aragorn’s clothes, and Aragorn laughed. He leaned into Boromir, letting his Captain pull loose the laces of his cotton shirt and tug it over his head. Despite the days Aragorn had spent behind his desk, despite the long decades that Arwen had known him, the sight of his lean muscles with his steady heart beating beneath his ribs still took her breath away.

Aragorn’s breeches and smallclothes met the same fate as Boromir’s, fallen over the side of the bed, forgotten. On the chair, away from them, Arwen’s fingers tripped over each other as she unbuttoned her light spring dress, letting it pool at her hips.

Biting her lip, she watched Aragorn kiss the pink, puckered scars on Boromir’s shoulder, chest and side – surely the marks of the orc arrows that had miraculously not taken his life. Her fingers twined together, clenching hard enough for the whites of the bone to show as Aragorn pressed Boromir down onto the bed with a force he never seemed to dare to use with her, holding his Captain still as he took him between his lips.

She gasped as Boromir’s head turn, catching and holding her gaze as he arched up towards the heat of Aragorn’s mouth. He breathed her name as his hand slid into Aragorn’s hair, and her King smiled, his gaze flickering towards her as he gave his Captain pleasure.

It was more difficult than Arwen had ever thought to stay where she was, to keep the promise to herself to not interfere – not just yet. She crossed her legs even tighter, feeling her thighs tremble slightly as Aragorn’s fingers dug in tight onto Boromir’s calves, nails creating little red moons on the skin.

She found herself stumbling forward, standing like a newborn foal, nearly tripping over her dress as it fell to the ground. Walking over to the nightstand, she took out the small vial of oil, pressing it into Aragorn’s hand. As she turned to leave, Boromir’s hand caught her wrist, and her breath hitched as she turned around.

“My Queen,” whispered Boromir, his gaze holding hers, scorching hotter than the fires of Mount Doom. Slowly, he brought her fingers into her mouth, his teeth scraping against the tips, the sides, tongue teasing the thin skin in between until Arwen shivered hard, barely recognising her voice as she let out the tiniest of whimpers.

 _Elbereth_ , but he was beautiful, and she knew she would never regret sundering herself from her kin, for this was what she had gained in return.

“ _Arwen_.”

The sound of her name, turned into an obscene prayer by her Captain’s tongue, broke Arwen’s control entirely. 

She leaned forward, brushing his hair away from his eyes and took his mouth. A callused hand caught her still-clothed hip – _Aragorn_ – and she fell forward, her knees sinking into the bedsheets as she darted her tongue between Boromir’s teeth, swallowing his quiet moan, feeling the staccato beat of his heart as he arched upwards – towards her, towards their King. Her fingers curled around Aragorn’s, blindly kissing the tips, and she tore her eyes from Boromir’s. She watched, dizzied, as Aragorn’s fingers sank into their Captain’s body; watched as Boromir jerked, and swallowed the hiss of breath that escaped his lips.

Arwen shifted, moving until her back was against the headboard. Aragorn smiled at her from beneath hooded lashes, and she understood him in the language of long-time lovers. They moved Boromir together: drawing him upwards into her arms as Aragorn pushed himself forward, kissing him as his fingers pushed even deeper inside. Boromir moaned, his lips wet and swollen, irresistible, and Arwen swallowed every sound, her fingers moving downwards to curl around his length, still wet from Aragorn’s mouth.

They bracketed him like this, teasing pleasure from every inch of his body but still careful to not overwhelm. Boromir’s head rested on her shoulder, his mouth brushing over her jaw, her neck, her chin, refusing to break contact as if he could lure her very essence out from his skin. Arwen shivered, pressing her breasts against his back, feeling her silk shift slide over her nipples, and she hid her moan between his lips. 

There had not been barely a single word spoken between them since they stepped into the bedroom, but Arwen knew they spoke a more intimate language: that of bodies, of pleasure. Boromir trembled in her arms, gasping like a man drowning, and Arwen smiled against his temple as she dipped her thumb into his slit, circling the head of his length with her fingers. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched as Aragorn pushed three fingers inside their Captain, and her nail moved down slowly, then upwards.

And Boromir came apart in their arms.

He shivered hard, his body sinking into hers, and Arwen reached out. Aragorn took her wrist with both of his hands, his rough tongue cleaning her fingers of Boromir’s essence. There was so much heat in his eyes that Arwen thought her nerves had become liquid fire, and she gasped, her hips pushing upwards, pressing against Boromir’s back. Aragorn laughed, and he leaned in to kiss her over Boromir’s shoulder, and the salt-sweetness on his tongue was a new taste that Arwen had never experienced until now.

Change and newness: she would give up the stagnant peace of Valinor over and over for this every time.

Her head thudded against the headboard as she tried to breathe. Her shift stuck to her body now, soaked with sweat, and she watched with heavy-lidded eyes as Aragorn shifted down to kiss Boromir again. Boromir made a soft, surprised sound, his hand catching the ends of Aragorn’s hair, tugging and tugging.

Her men rose at the same moment, reaching towards her with scrambling, needful hands. Arwen laughed breathlessly and went to them, lifting her arms to allow them to pull her shift over her head. Boromir’s fingers were rough on her skin, tremulous as they traced the curve of her breast and the inward dip of her waist. Arwen knew she must be a strange sight to him – Elf-smooth, without a single scar – but he pressed a kiss against her ribs, right above her heart, and she knew he didn’t care.

How far he had come from the Man who fled from the sight of her in Imladris! How far they had all come! Arwen had lived for nigh two millennia before she had met Aragorn, but she had never felt more alive before she gave up her immortality – indeed, at times she wondered if she had ever _lived_ before she decided to embrace the possibility of death.

She shelved the thought to the corner of her mind to ponder upon later, for now Aragorn’s lips were close to her, and she tilted her head and met them. Boromir’s hands slid through the long curtain of her hair before he cupped her neck, and his teeth were sharp against the curve of her arm. She gasped into Aragorn’s mouth, feeling her King smile, and was dizzied by the joy that nigh overtook her.

Distracted as she was, she was surprised as Aragorn pulled her to the side. She yelped, falling against her King, and laughed again when she saw him nearly throw Boromir down to the bed, leaning over him. Aragorn had never truly lost the impatience of his youth – only tempered it – and she smiled as she kissed him, their hands linking above Boromir’s chest, holding him down together.

As Aragorn shifted downward, she kissed Boromir again, her fingers trailing down his chest. She circled the scar at his hip, nail scraping the skin, and caught his breathless moan as Aragorn folded his legs backwards and entered him.

Moving back, she watched the way Boromir’s mouth fell open as his hips jerked; watched the sheer intensity of Aragorn’s gaze as he took his Captain, inch by inch. There was something beautifully obscene in the way Aragorn’s length pressed into Boromir, stretching him open, and Arwen reached out, tracing the edge of Boromir’s entrance, wrenching a groan from his throat that was wholly hers.

Then their hands were reaching out for her again, gliding up her thighs, and Arwen threw her head back, gasping, as callused fingertips stroked over the slickness of her folds. She had not realised how much she wanted to be touched until now, and she bit her lip hard as their fingers pushed inside her, sliding inside her, pressing against the edge of her walls.

Boromir’s thumb found the small nub beneath her folds, and Arwen fell forward. Aragorn’s arm caught her; and their lips were crashing together, too lost in pleasure to kiss, simply breathing in each other’s exhales. She found Boromir’s other hand, tangling his fingers with her own as they rocked together in a rhythm of their own making. 

A circle, joined with each other at every point, and Arwen found her thoughts unravelling. Her ears were filled with the sounds of their pleasures – Boromir’s stuttering cries, Aragorn’s harsh moans, and her own quieter whimpers every time their fingers drove inside her.

Aragorn pulled away at the same moment she did, and they turned towards Boromir, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his shoulder, every spot they could reach. Her mouth found Aragorn’s again, and she moaned into his mouth. Three fingers slipped inside, two catching the third in their grasp within her, and Arwen gasped, shivering, clawing at the sheets before she found Boromir’s hip. Her fingers wrapped around their Captain’s length again, stroking him, and Boromir’s thumb flicked over the nub above her entrance, Aragorn’s tracing her folds, and their sharp cries rang out together.

The air in the room seemed too thin and her head spun. The heat, the pleasure seemed unending and the edge seemed far too close. Arwen dropped her head onto Aragorn’s shoulder, gasping as they pushed inside her and Aragorn’s fingers caught her nipple within his grasp, twisting it until starlight burst behind her eyes. She sank her teeth into his skin as she trembled hard.

Distantly, she heard Boromir’s ragged cry ring out in the room.

She bowed her head, panting and blinking, trying to regain her vision. She turned to look at Boromir. His head was dropped back to the bed as he gasped for breath, and she could see the signs of his pleasure on his stomach. But Aragorn’s every muscle was still tense between her hands, his teeth gritted as he stopped in his thrusts. 

Arwen shifted, letting out a shuddering exhale as their fingers slipped out of her. She drew her hand down Boromir’s abdomen, tasting his come on her tongue. Aragorn’s eyes were on her, but she did not turn her head.

Exchanging a glance, Queen and Captain leapt upon their King, dragging him forward. Boromir’s legs wrapped tight around Aragorn’s waist, rocking upwards, urging, and Arwen draw his fingers into her mouth, licking and stroking, her fingers sliding down his chest to toy with his nipples.

Boromir took Aragorn’s mouth again as their King lost his control, his hips driving hard into Boromir, sharp pants escaping him with every thrust. Arwen shifted, her fingers sliding down his back, using the slickness of Boromir’s essence to press a single finger inside his entrance, curling it upwards. Aragorn cried out, half-muffled by Boromir’s mouth, and his hips slammed forward. Arwen stroked his hair away from his neck, fitting her teeth against the jut of his spine, and bit down as she thrust her finger into him again.

This time, it was Aragorn who fell apart, bracketed by his lovers. Arwen rested her head on his shoulder, feeling him tremble beneath her hands, and smiled.

*

“There is no Man more fortunate than I in the whole of Arda,” breathed Aragorn minutes later. He laughed quietly. “Perhaps even in the whole of Arda’s history.”

They laid side-by-side on the bed, with Aragorn in the middle. Arwen felt his every breath beneath her cheek, and her hand was tangled with Boromir’s on his hip.

“Nay, Aragorn,” murmured Boromir. “’Tis I who is the most fortunate, for I have been given so much joy when I am still undeserving.”

Aragorn shifted, but Arwen was still quicker. She reached over her King’s chest to place a finger on Boromir’s lips, silencing him.

“’Tis us who decides if a Man is deserving, Boromir of Gondor,” she said. “Do not distrust our judgment.”

Boromir parted his lips to argue, but Aragorn kissed him then, pressing his lips hard against his Captain’s.

“I have found it best to obey the advice of our Queen,” said Aragorn, grinning. “No more, Boromir. Let us rest and wake early in the morn – Gondor has long deserved to know that her dearest Son has returned.”

There was a moment of silence as Boromir cast his eyes downwards. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. He took Arwen’s hand, his lips brushing over her knuckles.

“Aye, my lady,” he murmured. His eyes flickered towards Aragorn. “My lord.”

Arwen smiled. She watched as they kissed once more before settling down, their breathing gently slowing. 

She watched them as they fell into sleep’s embrace, though it was long before she followed. 

***

**Epilogue**

_Autumn, the First Year of the Fourth Age_

Hallam was fidgeting again, tugging on a loose thread of his best tunic. Dagmar watched him for a moment before she heaved a sigh, batting at his hand.

“Stop that,” she scolded. “You’ll ruin the threading, and ‘twill be me who’ll have to fix it.”

“I can sew it myself, woman,” grumbled Hallam, but he stilled his hand.

“And I’ll have to sew it again,” she snorted in reply. “You men with your rough hands ain’t good with a needle.”

Hallam opened his mouth to retort, but a voice interrupted them.

“Do you really think the Lord Boromir would see us?”

Dagmar turned, her lips curving into a smile at the sound of Sage’s sweet voice. The younger woman was seated opposite her in the tavern- _inn_ of the fifth level, her hand nervously stroking over the small swell of her belly beneath her dress. She had found out about her pregnancy halfway through their road towards Minas Tirith, and though Beranor wanted her to turn back immediately and follow her, she had stood firm. All in the village knew the steel in her spine since the orc attack two years ago, but it seemed Beranor had needed a reminder more than most.

“Aye, I’m sure of it,” Sage’s husband replied gruffly. “’Twas he who called us here.”

“But Lord Boromir called every soldier who is willing to come back home,” replied Sage, nibbling worriedly at her lip. “Surely he will not have the time?”

Hallam snorted. “Lass, he’ll meet every single one of us and remember our names.” He smiled crookedly, a light in his eyes that Dagmar knew was entirely reserved for the lord whom he had sworn himself to so long ago. “He’s a Man like that.”

“It’s why the place is so crowded,” said Beranor, shrugging. “It don’t matter if Lord Boromir’s been gone for years: if he needs us, we’ll come.”

“Boromir is a lucky Man indeed, to have such loyalty.”

Dagmar started, her hand going towards the knife strapped at her thigh, hidden under her dress. She blinked at the hooded stranger who stood there beside their table, his arms crossed. There were harsh words on his lips, but before she could release them, the stranger spoke once more.

“He’s waiting for you down the hall.” He jerked his head. “I’ll take you there.”

The four of them exchanged quick glances at each other, and it was Beranor who finally said: “How are we to know that you speak the truth?”

The stranger smiled from beneath his hood. “A good question.” He swept out his cloak, revealing the garb of a Ranger beneath. “I have no answer for it, but I am unarmed. Will that satisfy?”

Dagmar narrowed her eyes. Few of Gondor trusted the Rangers of the North, but something told her that this Man was surely not whom he seemed.

“Aye,” she said before anyone else could speak. “We will follow you.”

They stood at once, and Dagmar watched out of the corner of her eyes as Beranor wrapped his arm around Sage’s shoulders, ready to protect her as need be. She shot Hallam a dark look before he could attempt the same, and kept her hand half-curled at her thigh, ready to reach for her knife if necessary.

Yet the stranger was as good as his word: he led them to a private room on the second level of the inn, and as he threw open the door, Dagmar heard Sage gasp.

“ _Dwyte_?”

The Man who used to answer to Dwyte stood up. He shot the hooded stranger an amused glance before he walked around the large table, reaching out a hand towards them.

“I go by ‘Boromir’ now,” he said, grinning hard. 

Beranor’s lips were twitching as he led a gaping Sage towards one of the seats within the room. When she was seated, she turned around and smacked her husband hard on the arm.

“You didn’t tell me!” she accused.

“My lord asked me to keep my silence,” said Beranor wryly, and Sage sighed. She – like all lovers of soldiers – knew better than to try to test a man’s loyalty to his lord with his love for her; after all, she understood that she would always lose. Dagmar was only glad that Sage had yet to realise that _she_ knew as well, and she was under no obligation to keep Dwyte’s identity a secret.

“My apologies, Sage,” said Boromir, his smile dimming. “Please do not be angry with me. I had asked.”

Sage shook her head, blinking hard to try to not stare. Dagmar knew that she was much the same way – she had little contact with Dwyte when he was back at the village, and it would always be odd to hear a _lord_ apologise to common folks like them.

“My lord Boromir,” she said. “May I ask if Ioreth is in the city as well?”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched at the strange Ranger start, nearly spilling the pipeweed he was pressing into the pot of his pipe. He had chosen a chair half-hidden in the shadows with his hood still up, and Dagmar wondered who he was that Boromir seemed to be so at ease with his presence.

Likely to be the Lord Boromir’s escort, she thought to herself. After all, no lords went alone, did they?

“Ioreth will be here,” Boromir was saying, and his lips twitched upwards slightly. “She apologises for her tardiness.”

Cocking her head to the side, Dagmar sat down, wondering what could delay Lord Boromir’s wife and not him. (Was Ioreth his wife? There had been no announcement, and surely such a marriage would merit a great celebration? The identity of the village’s two strangers had long lingered in her mind, and Dagmar truly could not think of anyone else the Lord Boromir would treat like he had treated Ioreth.

Unless it was the Queen herself, but that was a ridiculous thought.)

Lord Boromir asked of them about the village then, and as the men spoke, Dagmar watched both Boromir and the hooded stranger. She liked her mysteries, and this Ranger was as mysterious as one came. They had only been in Minas Tirith for two days, she thought, and life was already more exciting than it had been in the village for two years.

Then again, didn’t she run all the way westward just to escape the excitement of the city? Though there seemed to be fewer soldiers patrolling the streets now, and she had heard that orc attacks were far less than before, she still preferred a quiet life to one where her home could be ripped apart at any moment.

The door opened as Lord Boromir expressed his delight at the landlord’s new marriage. Another hooded stranger stood in the doorway, and Dagmar felt her breath caught in her throat.

“Forgive me,” said a voice all of them knew. “I was delayed by duties I could not avoid.” She raised white hands and tugged back her hood.

Dagmar knew her jaw had fallen open. In front of her stood the most beautiful woman she had ever seen in her entire life, and she knew in an instance the person who stood before them. All in Gondor knew their Queen, and it was truly their Queen: her Elven ears stood in full display, and her pale skin seemed to glow even in the dim light of the three candles of the room.

Her Majesty, the Lady Arwen Undómiel, tilted her head to the side in a movement so achingly familiar that Dagmar nigh fell out of her chair.

“Don’t you recognise me, my friends?” she asked, sounding almost disappointed. “If not my face, then at least my voice?”

It was Hallam who found his tongue first.

“ _Ioreth_?”

The Lady Arwen laughed, a musical little sound that made Dagmar feel like the most awkward and ungraceful of monkeys. She strode over to them, dropping down on the seat beside Boromir. Folding her hands, she leaned forward.

“Yes.”

Almost as if it came from a long distance away, Dagmar could hear the Lord Boromir laughing himself sick.

The Queen turned away from them (and Dagmar released a breath she wasn’t even aware she was holding) and shot a glance towards the hooded stranger sitting at the window.

“Won’t you put out that pipe and join us?” she asked, as if swallowing laughter. “You might adore pretending to be a vagrant, my lord, but ‘tis rather impolite when amongst friends.”

_My lord? Friends?_

Standing, the stranger chuckled. He tapped the ash out of his pipe and killed the flame before tucking it into his cloak. Time seemed to slow as he walked forward, and he ducked his head down before pushing his hood back.

Coins for the new reign had been issued by a year before, but even before then all knew the face of Gondor’s King Returned: portraits had been issued throughout Gondor to hang upon public halls and houses from the moment of his coronation. Yet not even the best portrait seemed to have captured the regal arch of Elessar’s brow, the sharp curves of his cheeks – much less the wide, mischievous grin he now bore.

Dagmar felt her legs giving in. She slid onto the floor on her knees, bowing her head.

“Your Majesty,” she breathed. Her eyes flickered upwards, staring from Elessar King to Queen Arwen, and bowed even lower. “Your Majesties.”

She could feel herself shaking. The Lord Boromir she could deal with, for she had seen the Captain-General aplenty during her time in Minas Tirith and heard stories of his kind and down-to-earth nature. The King and the Queen, however, were another matter: they were like legends come to life to the people of Gondor, the King who returned after a thousand years, bringing along his Elven bride, the wise, immortal Queen whose beauty was so great that many was struck dumb upon looking upon her face.

The stories said that the Queen gave up her immortality for the sake of the King, and that was a greater tale of love than any Dagmar had ever heard in her life.

Now they stood before her, and Dagmar realised with sinking horror how _rude_ she had been to her sovereign lord, to the Man who ruled them all. She had thought him suspicious, and – oh _Valar_ – she had thought to threaten him with a small knife when it was he who led the armies towards the Black Gates themselves! He who commanded the Dead, and cleared the Path that had been feared for hundreds of years!

Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Dagmar found herself gasping for breath as Ioreth – as _Queen Arwen_ – drew her into her arms. 

“Oh, my friend,” she murmured, and her hand was soothing as she stroked through Dagmar’s hair. “We have been cruel to you all.”

“My Queen,” she whispered.

The Lady Arwen pressed a single finger upon her lips. “Ioreth,” she said, and Dagmar felt her hard-won breath knocked out of her again when she saw those ageless eyes turned upon her. How had she not noticed how deep Ioreth’s eyes were, and how strange and immortal they looked?

“Dagmar is Ioreth’s friend,” said the Lady. “If you still find a place in your heart to have a friend named Ioreth, Dagmar, please call me by that name.”

Closing her eyes, Dagmar dragged in a long, harsh breath. She could not speak to the Queen Arwen – it would be akin to speaking to one of the Valar – but she knew Ioreth well. She could look Ioreth in the eye; she could speak to her.

When she had calmed herself, she stumbled to her feet, dropping onto her chair. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed Ioreth holding Sage tight, rubbing her back like the young woman was no more than a child. 

(Then again, compared to her, they were all children, weren’t they?)

She rubbed her eyes hard, shaking her head. The King and Lord Boromir had finished speaking with their soldiers, and Dagmar tore her eyes away from Elessar as he slipped back to his seat.

“Thorongil,” said the King abruptly. “I am not Elessar here, but Thorongil.”

Later, Dagmar would marvel at the change a single name had made. Elessar King lost none of his regal bearing, but she looked upon him and thought him Thorongil – a strangely familiar name – and she found the knot around her lungs loosening.

“You have used that name before,” murmured Lord Boromir, glancing over to Thorongil. 

“Aye.” He nodded. “Once, long ago.”

Ioreth shook her head, and Dagmar realised with a start that she had pulled her dark hair forward until the strands rested on her shoulders. Though she knew that the Elven ears were hid right beneath, she could not see them now, and she could pretend that this was only Ioreth, a friend and a seamstress, and none else.

She took a deep breath, glancing over to her companions. The soldiers still seemed much in shock, and Sage was staring at her hands. It was up to her, then. Dagmar leaned forward, ignoring the way her hands clutched together underneath the table.

“You missed a lot, Ioreth,” she said softly. “Much has happened in the village since you left. We have told Dwyte,” she nodded to Lord Boromir, “some of it, but not all.”

Turning, she placed a hand on Hallam’s elbow. “Won’t you tell Ioreth and Dwyte about the lessons you lot have been giving the villagers, Hallam?”

Her lover started. He stared at her for a long moment, and Dagmar gave him a shaky smile. Nodding at her, he turned, and Dagmar’s heart ached at her luck as his eyes met Thorongil’s gaze without flinching.

“Well, I’m sure the incident with the orcs is well-known to you,” he began. “After that- well, after you two left, Sadoc and I started talking about maybe setting up an outpost. Some of the boys from the neighbouring village wanted to do that as well, especially since we know that there’s no guarantee that the few soldiers left behind will be able to protect us if something like that happens again…”

Dagmar allowed Hallam’s voice to wash over her, and she leaned back on her chair to take up her position as observer once more. Thorongil and Ioreth were leaning slightly towards each other, but, oddly enough, Dwyte’s gaze seemed constantly drawn towards them. 

What was their story, she wondered. Why was Lord Boromir in their small village when all thought him dead? Why had Ioreth come stumbling in? They both seemed greatly at ease with each other, but Dagmar remembered a short period when Dwyte seemed to avoid Ioreth as if she had the plague. 

Much had happened in the two years in a small, quiet village. Dagmar wondered what had happened between Dwyte and Ioreth – and now Thorongil – in those same years, and if she would ever have the chance, or courage, to ask.

Well, all four of them would be staying in Minas Tirith until Dwyte had no more use of the soldiers. She hoped that would give her plenty of time.

_End_

 

Notes: In the fashion of the first translator, the names of plain Men and Hobbits with Westron names have been translated from the original into tongues more familiar to the readers of this tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to pherede, who has been following and commenting throughout all of this. I know I don't reply to your comments, lovely, but they always make my day when I read them. ♥


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